Shelter
by moirae
Summary: Bella never made it to Forks, never met Edward, never fell in love. As a student at Emerson College, she is passionate, smart, and desperately lonely. Until someone catches the scent of his singer on the air . . .
1. Prologue Winter Song

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I'm just here to play.

Thank you to Project Team Beta for their invaluable assistance editing this chapter. Pirri, kikidew, and irelandk worked hard to get it in shape for you all.

Supper special thanks to my permanent betas, Marlena516 and darcysmom, who have hacked their way through each misplaced comma and run-on sentence.

* * *

**Prologue - Winter Song**

**Edward**

My candle battles bravely against the icy Alaskan air, shadows flickering like the scurrying rats that abandoned this place as soon as I took residence. Their pungent stench still lingers.

The cabin is a relic. Situated in the south field of our twelve hundred acre plot, it's the only structure original to this land; over a hundred years old and boasting none of the comforts brought by Esme's skilled hands. No furniture, no running water, and on the verge of collapse—it isn't fit for habitation.

It's perfect.

A mile from the main house, it's the only building far enough away to offer a reprieve from the unending voices in my head.

I haven't abandoned my family altogether, though the hours I spend in this decrepit hovel are indeed greater than the hours I spend in their company. I tell them my time away is for their benefit; the gift of privacy. After our most recent tour of duty in high school—Forks, this time—they're due some freedom, some relief from oppressive scrutiny. They can be themselves here, free to hunt and laugh and . . . love, without my intrusion. I tell them this, but the distance—as we all know—most greatly benefits me.

Wind whistles through the snow-crusted walls as I try to focus on the faded paperback in my hands. It was once my favorite novel, but I find it no longer holds any truth or insight for me. I toss it down and turn my attention to the stars peeking through holes in the roof.

I've always loved the Alaskan stars: an endless expanse of glittering sky, unmarred by the reflective glow of city lights. The bright orbs once held the promise of infinite opportunity—worlds upon worlds of purpose and happiness, and all the time I could ask to grasp it. As I look through the crumbling ceiling of my shelter, the fathomless nature of the sky offers, instead, a reminder of my own insignificance.

I sense a presence, see the whisper of pale limbs and strawberry hair across the field outside my window as I catch her errant thoughts.

_Nothing_ . . . _nothing_ . . . _nothing_ . . .

My mouth quirks in amusement at her latest attempt to avoid my gift.

"I can hear you," I murmur; my voice carries to her highly-tuned ears, even across the distance.

She curses. In a blink, she's standing before me, my candle snuffed out in her wake. I frown at the loss—it was the only company I sought.

She looks down at me, statuesque, her brow arching smugly. Her voice is like the tinkling of an ornate crystal chandelier: distractingly bright, garish.

"I nearly made it to the door, you know."

I push myself from the floor, brushing snow and dirt from my pants; there's no seat to offer her.

"I was distracted."

She gives a withering glance to the room and says, "Of course, such opportunities for entertainment in your little . . ." She struggles to find the word. ". . . shack." It's much kinder than the word she's thinking.

I don't like losing this game, even if it is one she designed . . . one in which I have nothing invested. For her my failure to read her thoughts means progress, intimacy. For me it means lack of diligence.

She circles the perimeter of the room, parading for me. A thin red sheath kisses her marble skin, and she wonders if the effect is sexy or vulgar. I don't know if she means me to hear that or wants me to answer. I hold my tongue.

_I can be distracting, you know._

"Tanya," I reprimand, but of course, she takes it as an invitation.

Then she's on me, her hard body pressed to mine. Her hands wrap around the base of my neck and lace into my hair as mine hang limply at my sides. Her amber eyes darken with hunger; her nose and lips hover millimeters from my own. Pride allows her to go no further. She will wait for me to make a move.

She has been waiting for a long time.

_You could have me. It would be so easy. You don't have to be alone._

And under that, quieter than the voice she is projecting, _I don't have to be alone._

For a moment the mask is down, vixen replaced by the damaged woman she so carefully tries to conceal. Little does she know these few glimpses of honesty, of vulnerability, are more attractive to me than all of her carefully engineered seduction. I let myself be swept away by the pain in her eyes, their desperate emptiness a mirror to my own.

_Can we do this? _I wonder._ Can we find companionship in each other?_ _ Will being content with her—not happy, never happy—be enough to patch over the empty hole in my chest?_

I lean into her, ghosting my hands along her hips, hearing thoughts of shock and delight as I touch my lips gently to hers. She presses closer to me, flesh grinding into flesh, and moans.

_Oh God, yes!_

She deepens the kiss, opening her mouth and exploring. I try to reciprocate, willing myself to enjoy her hands, her tongue, her body; but her thoughts are screaming at me, a cacophony of images overtaking my senses. The kiss recedes into the background as scenes of our coupling play out in her mind—violently writhing bodies, a tangle of limbs, mouths shouting ecstasy into the night air. It is my face in those images, but not as I know it. Through the lens of Tanya's mind I look angry, feral. I'm punishing her, and she loves it.

I feel a cold sinking in the pit of my stomach. This is not right—this desperate groping, this false connection. She wants something I can't give her. Perhaps together we wouldn't be alone, but still, we would be infinitely lonely.

I push her gently away from me as my eyes whisper an apology. She's confused, hands still wrapped desperately in my hair.

"What—?" _Do you want something different? We can do it however you like._

I shake my head, almost imperceptibly, hating myself for this cruelty. Understanding dawns at last, and something inside her cracks. I've never seen such hatred in her eyes. Then the wall is up, and her face twists into a mask of haughty indifference.

"Fine." _I don't need some pathetic hermit to enjoy myself. I'll leave you to your self-flagellation. _

And she is gone.

I stand rooted to the spot, a statue amid crumbling ruins. Clouds move across the sky, blanketing the stars and extinguishing their light. For a while, I allow myself the luxury of a blank mind—I think nothing, feel nothing.

Hours pass. All silent. All still. Finally, as the sun slowly crests the horizon, I breathe in deeply. The morning smells fresh and new. An omen. What it stands for—beginning or end—I don't know.

* * *

**Bella**

The room stinks of cheap beer, cigarettes, and desperation. I've sequestered myself in a ratty armchair in a darkened corner, and I'm doing my best to blend into the furniture. This endeavor is greatly assisted by the lack of electricity, the only light provided by a mismatched collection of candles lining dirty windowsills and shelves. Cheap glass votives (the Virgin Mother smiling beneficently from the one next to me) mingle with tea lights and scented monstrosities from Yankee Candle. In the flickering yellow light, everything is washed out to a murky non-color—sallow skin, stale beer, sweat stains.

Then someone cracks open the glow sticks, and the dim room is splashed in rainbow points of light writhing in time to a heavy electronic beat. I strain to hear a melody in the auto-tuned voice screeching through the speakers across the room, but my quest is in vain.

There's a couple making out on the floor at my feet, threatening to knock poor Mary to the ground, and I discreetly move her out of the way. The last thing I need is to usher a hundred drunk kids out of a blazing inferno.

_I don't belong here. Why did I think this was a good idea?_

Oh yeah, the cute boy from Russian Lit who stopped me after class to invite me to "the most awesome blackout party ever", the one who seemed to have no idea who I was when I approached him at the keg an hour ago, the one who thinks Gogol is a search engine. I knew I should have followed my instincts and stayed home, but something had me feeling adventurous today.

Perhaps it was Professor Cameron's lecture on sexual imagery in _The Master and Margarita _and the resulting tingle between my legs—both interrupted by a sudden power outage. Maybe it was the unexpected taste of freedom brought about by our early dismissal from class, the way Gogol-boy grabbed my arm as I crossed the snow-covered park away from the Emerson campus, or the feel of his fingers against my palm as he shoved an address into my hand. Whatever it was, I felt brave and excited at the prospect of doing something different, something impulsive, something so utterly unlike myself.

_So much for trying new things._

There's a crash from the kitchen followed by a chorus of laughter. I wonder whose place this is, if they care it's being systematically destroyed by spilt alcohol and cigarette burns.

I check my phone for the hundredth time. Yep. Still on. Angela should be here by now; she should have at least called. I search through the haze of smoke and hormones for a familiar face, but the closest I come is the too-thin girl who usually sleeps through our Psych 101 class. She's taking a shot of something piss-colored and trying her hardest to look like she's having fun. A pack of guys with popped collars form a half-circle around her, bumping fists and laughing as they fill her shot glass again.

_Where is Angela?_ I never would have come if I thought I'd be braving Ke$ha and Pabst and blossoming bromances alone.

I've just decided it's time to go when a hulking figure approaches and sits down on the arm of my chair, trapping me here. He's wearing a Neon Trees t-shirt and reeks of Axe. It makes my throat itch. I slide further into the scratchy cushions of the armchair and stare intently over the impromptu dance floor to the bare wall across the room.

He leans over to be heard above the din.

"Hey, cutie. You don't have a drink." Apparently my attempt at aloofness has gone ignored.

I sneak a look. He's defined, bulkier than necessary, and I wonder how much time he has to spend in the gym to get his neck to bulge into his shoulders like that. His dark hair is gelled into a triangular point at his forehead, and I hold back a snicker. He has pale blue eyes and a sharp nose. Take away the hair and the smell and he wouldn't be too bad—kind of like a muscled, discount version of Christian Bale.

"I'm okay," I mumble and return to my intensely busy schedule of doing nothing.

Undeterred, he says, "Come on, how are you gonna have any fun without a drink? Here, take mine." He shoves a red plastic cup in my face, sloshing a bit on my lap.

There's no way I'm drinking that.

"Really, I'm fine." I raise my voice, making sure he's heard me this time. "You enjoy."

I try to push the cup away, but the cheap plastic bends against his grip, and I'm afraid the whole thing will come spilling down on me. I can just imagine how fun it would be to walk home through the snow in wet pants. He insists again, as if he's being chivalrous and I should be batting my eyes and swooning. He's not going to give up. I relent, taking the cup and setting it down on a blue milk crate next to me.

"So. What's up?" he says with a short nod.

_Oh God. He doesn't actually expect me to talk, does he?_

"I was just getting ready to leave, actually. I have to meet a friend—"

I'm halfway out of my seat, brushing against him because there's nowhere else to go, and I realize in horror that he's taking this as an invitation. His hands are on my hips as he slides down into the chair, pulling me onto his lap with a surprising grace.

"No, no, no, you can't go yet. I don't even know your name."

I wiggle in his lap, trying to free myself, but I can't get any purchase, and it just seems to be encouraging him anyway.

"Seriously, I need to go." My voice hovers on the edge of panic.

I don't want to be here with this creep, in this stupid apartment with this stupid music and these stupid fucking people.

"Come on, honey, lighten up. It's a party—it's supposed to be fun!"

His hands are working their way north and my vision starts to blur. I feel like I can't breathe. The music and the glow sticks and the smoke curling into my nose are giving me a headache. If I could just get outside and get some air, everything would be okay. But this lummox has me pinned against him, and the idiot doesn't seem to understand the universal signs for "Leave me the fuck alone!"

When I was young and I'd get stressed or really overwhelmed by something, sometimes I'd zone out for a little while—"take a leave of absence," Charlie would call it. At four years old, I saw my golden retriever, Thisbe, get run over by a silver Suburban and found myself floating in an ocean of calm. One second, I was in my front yard staring at a smear of red on the asphalt, and the next, I was surrounded by blue waves of love, the reality in front of me gone, unable to break through the safe cocoon of my mind. To the outside observer I looked like a creepy china doll—dead eyes and limp limbs. At least that's how Renee described it. Inside I was safe.

I've "gone away" at least a dozen times since then—it's different every time; I have a good imagination. I'm flying, I'm in a lush garden, I'm surrounded by colorful clouds. I've never had a problem escaping. It's reality that can be a challenge.

I'm sitting in this Neanderthal's lap—his hands creeping up my body as I push against them—and I'm sinking into that happy place. I feel myself start taking that leave of absence, and I know if I let myself go something really _not good_ is going to happen. I struggle to keep my breath calm as I flip through every lesson on self-defense Charlie ever taught me, and finally I land on the one that seems to fit this situation best: _if strength's not an option, use your wits_. I look around and see what I need, grab the red cup and fling the contents into his face. He releases me immediately.

"You bitch! I was just trying to say hello!"

But I'm running out of the room, ignoring the bile rising in my throat, ignoring shouts of protest as I push through crammed bodies. It takes me a moment to find my coat in the pile by the door, but I do, slamming down the stairs and into the fresh, cold night air as I push my arms through the sleeves.

I take huge strides, slipping occasionally on the ice as I make my way to the nearest bus stop. I pull out my phone as I wait for the 66 into Harvard Square, pushing the third name on my speed dial, hopping from foot to foot with unspent adrenaline as I wait for the line to connect. My breath comes out in smokey plumes.

"Hey," answers a soft voice laced with guilt. "I'm sorry, I know I said I was coming, but Ben stood me up on our Skype date, and I'm just not up for a party tonight. Are you having fun?"

My laugh is colored by a note of hysteria. The night is unusually dark, street lights extinguished in the power outage from the ice storm. Somehow it feels colder without light.

"No, Ang, I wouldn't say I'm having fun." My voice is strained. I wish I was in bed. I just want to be warm.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. What happened?"

I briefly consider telling her the whole story, but I know it'll just make her feel bad for not being here. She's already going to be moping over Ben's missed call—that's the third one this month—and I don't need to add to her recovery time.

"Nothing," I say as I kick at a frozen block of brown snow. "It was just a stupid party. Popped collars and barbie dolls and dubstep. I'm coming home now."

"Popcorn and _Notting Hill_?"

"Yes, please."

I see the lights of the 66 round the corner and dig my CharlieCard out of my pocket.

"Bus is here—gotta go."

As I pocket my phone, I glance at an adolescent oak on the sidewalk next to me. Its thin limbs are heavy and bowed with crusted ice.

The bus squeals to a stop, and I get on, finding a seat in back. A girl meets my glance in the reflection of the grimy window. Long brown hair, sad brown eyes.

She looks lonely.


	2. Ch 1 No Sunlight

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own my simmering jealousy.

Thanks again to PTB and ChloeCougar, remylebeauishot, and StoryPainter for working on this chapter.

My permanent betas, darcysmom and Marlena516, are the cream in my coffee, the cinnamon in my sugar. Thank you, ladies!

Suggested listening:

"No Sunlight" by Death Cab for Cutie

"Head On" by The Jesus and Mary Chain

"Fire Escape" by Civil Twilight

* * *

**Chapter 1 - No Sunlight**

**Edward**

Rain. At last.

I scan the swollen skies for some sign of a break, but the clouds are low and pregnant, promising at least a few hours of freedom outdoors. Windowpanes shudder as a violent crack echoes in the sky, and I ready myself for my escape.

Two weeks. It's been two weeks since the sky has shown a hint of sagging cloud; bright July sun, instead, blasting through my window—my self-imposed cell.

I've used the time to unpack, which didn't take nearly as long as I'd hoped. Even moving at an excruciatingly slow human speed couldn't draw the task out for more than a day. I'd shipped a few boxes from Alaska and stuffed a few more into the Volvo for the drive here, leaving most of my possessions in the care of my family. Music, books, and clothes (a fraction of what I left behind) fill a portion of my compact studio apartment. The utilitarian furniture—bureau, couch, and desk—I had delivered upon my arrival takes up the rest of the available space. I have no need for a bed, and TV doesn't interest me. The uncooperative weather has me longing for my piano—now sitting in Esme's parlor—but I know once school starts this fall I can visit the music rooms at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology whenever I like.

It isn't a surprise to me that Cambridge weather has proven difficult; over the decades, I've navigated sunny days through half a dozen university programs here in New England. But I've been spoiled—first by Forks, then Denali—and I sorely miss the freedom afforded by isolation and cloudy skies.

I gather some human props on my way out the door, my feet gliding down a flight of stairs and onto the unusually quiet sidewalk of Inman Square. I don't need the coat or umbrella for protection from the elements; rather, they are useful as protection from unwanted attention. My kind are exceedingly private.

I glance into the vintage boutique directly under my apartment and nod to the owner, my landlady, as I pass. Her eyes are appraising, and she wonders longingly if I would ever be desperate enough to pay for rent "in trade." I grimace, knowing I'll have to discourage any future advances. My feet guide me west on Cambridge Street, no destination in mind, and I'm relieved to be out of my little cell.

Just ahead, a young couple dodges puddles, attempting in vain to keep their toddler dry. The mother thinks despairingly of the little girl's ruined dress and the laundry she'll have to do later that night, the father imagines in detail what he might do with an evening alone with his wife, and the child sings a made-up tune about lemons and llamas to herself.

A perfect little bubble of humanity.

I watch them with envy, thinking if I just ignore everything I know to be true about myself, I can almost believe I belong in their world.

Almost.

My nose wrinkles at the smell of curry and coconut wafting from the Indian takeout place on the corner just as I register a buzzing in my pocket. I know who it will be before I hear the tinkling voice on the other end of the phone. The rest of my family respects my need for time away and will wait for me to call them.

"Hi, Alice." My voice sounds dull and scratchy, and I realize I haven't actually used it in two weeks.

"The little girl's adorable, Edward. I want to take her home and dress her up!"

"I don't think her mother would appreciate that," I reply dryly. I have to smile at my sister's lack of preamble. And I can't fault her for watching me; she can't turn her power off any easier than I. "How's everyone?"

"The same." Funny. Vampire humor. "Emmett took down a Kodiak yesterday. And Esme's working on a new cabin in the south field; it could be ready for you this winter—if you decide to come home." Subtle. She doesn't have to be psychic to know that won't be happening.

I try to let her down gently, regardless. "I only just got here, Alice."

"I know, but we miss you."

The silent implication is, of course, "I miss you," but she doesn't say that. Rejection is a bitter cocktail easier shared with others. We're silent for a moment, things unsaid weighing heavily on us both. I continue down the block, watching the raindrops fall in a rapid staccato.

"I'm glad you've gotten out of the house, Edward. You've been so gloomy cooped up inside."

"Thank you for the insight, Alice," I reply tersely. I know where this is going.

"Oh, don't be such a poop!" I hear a low snort in the background and assume my brother, Jasper, is listening in. "You know, you are a 'creature of the night'; you could just go out when the sun goes down."

I have no interest in continuing this conversation and absolutely no interest in going out at night. I want to explore my new city without being confronted by intoxicated, hormone-fueled humans at every turn. It's hard enough to block out their unwanted thoughts within the confines of my apartment. On the street, the soundtrack of evening is amplified, a painful reminder of what I will never have.

Nighttime, as they say, is for lovers.

"I'm perfectly happy waiting for a good storm." Before the words are out of my mouth I regret them.

Alice pounces. "You just like looking all broody and romantic in the rain. You're worse than Heathcliff. Or Angel!"

I chuff through a clenched jaw. _Wuthering Heights_ is bad enough; is it necessary to bring _Buffy_ into this?

"Alice, does this conversation have a point?" I don't intend to be short with my sister; I'm simply not in the mood to do this now. I know she's worried about me; my whole family is worried about me. In many ways, their worry precipitated this break from them. I'd rather face a barrage of mind-numbing calculus exams and chemistry labs than watch my family try to hide their pity from me for another second.

"The point is"—her voice is uncharacteristically low, sage-like—"you are only as lonely as you want to be. Make an effort. Or you might as well have stayed in that disgusting little shack."

_Easy words from someone sharing her life with her soul mate_, I think bitterly. I immediately regret my hostility. I can't begrudge Alice and Jasper their happiness. I can't begrudge any of them. But I couldn't stay and watch it, either.

I extract myself from the conversation as quickly (if not as politely) as possible, and while I know it hurts my sister—my best friend—to dismiss her like that, I can't bring myself to continue our talk with any semblance of honesty. Because if I were honest with her, I would say it's about so much more than being lonely. Lonely I have done—for nearly ninety years, in fact. In spite of the family surrounding me, sometimes _because_ of the family surrounding me, lonely is second nature at this point. But empty? That's something new. Being empty makes this charade pointless. Being empty makes this century on earth feel like enough, perhaps too much, already.

And sharing that would shatter my dear sister, which I'm not ready to do.

Not just yet.

* * *

**Bella**

Rain. Freaking great.

Turning off the steam wand with a twist, I pour the hot container of milk into a waiting cup of espresso just as the skies open with a thunderous roar. The walkway outside is already drenched, and a gaggle of teenage girls duck into the shop to escape the downpour.

The past two weeks have lulled me into a false sense of security. _Summer in Boston won't be nearly as bad as winter_, I thought, one particularly perfect afternoon. I'd been enjoying a rare day off from work at my favorite spot on the banks of the Charles River, a new novel sitting mostly-ignored in my lap as I soaked in the sun. _I can do this—only three more years to finish school, then back to sunny Florida . . . or Arizona._ I'm not sure where I might go after graduation, but I'm resolute it be warm and dry.

I glance out the large windows next to me, and my hopeful mood trickles out with each miserable drop on the pavement. Setting the cup on the bar to my left, I call out, "Large triple cap!" and move onto the next drink in my line with a sigh.

I know I'm being melodramatic about the whole thing, but I really wasn't prepared for the way the cold and rain would affect me here. I haven't been cooped up under gray skies since my last summer trip to Charlie's nearly ten years ago. After that, Dad and I met up in California for our two weeks together, and neither of us had to endure the dark shift of my mood under the clouds of Forks.

It doesn't help that this past winter was the worst New England has seen in years. I remember walking down narrow, icy Cambridge sidewalks on my way to the Red Line and into Boston and marveling at how I'd navigated the slippery death traps through Harvard Square without breaking an ankle. I'm not graceful on the best of days. Snow storm after snow storm hit the city for weeks on end, until finally, there was just nowhere left to put it all. I laugh, thinking of six-foot-tall drifts abutting the streets—clean white canvases for the local taggers. I've never seen anyone graffiti snow before, but in a college town like this, I guess even the hooligans have avant-garde sensibilities.

"Something funny?"

The tall brunette at the cash register to my right pulls me out of my reverie. Her probing eyes are shaded by cat-eye glasses, but I can see the smile in them.

I pump some chocolate into a cup and set it under the espresso machine, dark liquid flowing into it.

"I was just thinking about snow art."

Angela lets out a soft chuckle before turning to the next person in line and taking his order. Returning to the task at hand, I finish up the mocha and set it on the bar for the middle-aged woman in tweed checking her watch. I appreciate the shorthand Angela and I have developed in less than a year; it's such a relief to have someone who knows what I'm thinking without a whole bunch of extraneous . . . words.

Angela became my roommate during our freshman year at Emerson through coincidence and luck. When Charlie had heard "the Weber girl" was going to the same college as me, he put us in touch with each other the summer before school started. It was an uncharacteristically outgoing move for my stoic dad, but it made me smile to think he wanted me to have a friend in my new home.

We decided to opt out of the freshman dorms in Boston and moved into a place Angela's uncle owned across the river, in Cambridge. Thank goodness for family discounts.

I've never made friends easily, but things with Angela were simple from the start, partly because of our shared Forks history—minimal though mine is—but mostly because we just click. Angela is quiet and kind. She leaves me alone when I need it, and she encourages me to have fun when I need that, too.

And now we go to school together and live together and work here, at Black Ground, together . . . and yeah, we should probably think about getting some other friends.

As I set down another drink, our manager, Spencer, slides up to Angela with an awkward nonchalance and taps his fingers on the counter next to her. He's significantly older than me, but I feel oddly protective of Spencer, like the little brother I've never had. Short brown hair, dark glasses, and a long, reedy body, there's a nerd-chic thing about him—minus the chic. He has an encyclopedic knowledge of coffee, a penchant for ukulele music and all things sci-fi, and an enormous crush on Angela, which he doesn't make any attempt to hide. I pause at the espresso machine as he beats a disjointed rhythm on the wood and wonder when his inelegant methods of seduction might finally break through.

Ang is still getting over her high school sweetheart, Ben, their long-distance relationship having fallen apart this spring. I think she should give Spencer a chance—I can see how they'd be good together—and from the way she blushes at his proximity, it looks like she might do just that before too long.

"Hi, Spencer." Angela adjusts the credit card receipts impaled on a short metal spike and glances his way.

"Hi."

He stares at her, his smile open—dopey like a puppy—while his fingers continue their nervous tapping. A loud cackle issues from one of the high school girls huddled together across the room, punctuating the silence. Angela's eyes are wide and expectant as she traces the keys of her register, and Spencer just stares, lost somewhere in his own world.

_For the love of God, somebody talk!_

Finally, Angela breaks the unbearable silence, tilting her face toward his. "Spencer? Do you need something?"

"What?" He gathers himself from his daydream and meets her eyes. "Oh, yeah. Bella, the rain's going to make it really slow this afternoon. So, um . . ."

The sentence hangs like one of Charlie's silent farts. His gaze never leaves Angela, and if he hadn't used my name, I wouldn't have known he was talking to me.

"Spence? Is there more to that thought?" I coax.

Finally, he tears his eyes from Angela, who bites her lips together, trying to stifle a grin.

"I'm sorry, yeah. I hate to ask, but we don't really need three people here . . . "

Sometimes it's like pulling teeth with him. ". . . So you want me to clock out?"

He smiles at Angela, lost once again. "Yeah."

I can't really afford to lose the hours, but I don't protest. Maybe having some alone time until closing will help push them along. At least I won't be around to interrupt their strange mating dance.

"All right." I'm already thinking of a free afternoon curled up with a cup of tea and a book. "Hey, do you know if the rain is supposed to keep up for long?"

_Please, please be a quick storm._

"Swackett has us dressed like sailors for the next three days."

_Is that even English?_

"Swackett?"

I'm surprised when Angela answers instead of Spencer. "It's a weather app."

"Dressed like sailors . . . So, lots of rain?" I confirm.

"Yeah," they answer in unison. Okay, this is getting creepy.

I groan, and Angela spares me a compassionate glance.

"Bella, you can just finish up your drinks and head out. Angela, do you want a break from the register? Want to take over on bar?"

Angela smiles her answer. "Yeah, that would be good."

She's already buzzing, and Spencer can't keep the silly grin from his face. I feel a pang of jealousy at the promise of their budding relationship, but I can't begrudge them an opportunity for happiness. I can enjoy their romance vicariously, if nothing else. At this point 'vicarious' is pretty much the only living I do.

I wrap up my line of drinks, which dwindles as Spencer predicted, and soon I'm pulling my black hoodie over my head and waving goodbye to Angela, shooting her a conspiratorial grin as I step into the pounding rain. Thankfully, my walk home won't take too long; I live a few blocks north of the shop in the converted attic of an old, three-story Victorian.

I hunch my shoulders against the rain and set a brisk pace down Cambridge Street, knowing I'll wind up drenched by the end of it anyway.

* * *

**Edward**

By the time I pass the hospital and adjacent clinic on my meandering walk, the sodden streets are pretty well deserted. I decide to abandon the umbrella and tuck it into the oversized pocket of my charcoal trench coat. I look up to the sky; I like the feel of rain on my face.

Small pleasures.

As I cross a narrow side street, I notice the shop window of the local apothecary on the corner. I stand for a moment, amused at their antiquated word choice, wondering what the owners of this bright, modern pharmacy would think if they were somehow transported into an apothecary of my day. Over the gleaming displays and fluorescent lights, I picture a dim room, jars and vials of exotic herbs and liquids lining the walls, counters covered in iron scales and stone pestles and mortars. No doubt, it would appear barbaric pseudo-medicine to the starched pharmacists inside.

I sense a movement from the corner of my eye. A small figure is exiting the coffee shop a few doors down, turning away from me as she proceeds down the sidewalk. As I inhale her faint scent, my head snaps up, and I'm suddenly thankful we're separated by twenty feet rather than two. Even obscured by coffee and rain, her smell—her essence—is so enticing that if fate had positioned us that much closer, I'm not sure she would have survived even a few seconds.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and in less than one of the girl's thudding heartbeats, I've silenced it. I don't want to talk. I want to smell that glorious scent: earthy and sweet and . . . _perfect_. I want it in my mouth, all around me. I want to bathe in it.

Of their own accord, my feet follow the girl's petite form. A black hood covers her head, her chin tucked, face hidden. Her clothes are soaked in moments, and still the scent trails behind her like a spell. Knives slice down my throat as I inhale deeply, and I swallow down the resulting venom in gulps.

The girl turns the corner at the end of the block, making her way down a quiet residential street canopied with towering oaks and maples. I round the corner a minute later, staying as far back as I dare, not willing to lose her trace. The rain obscures my presence. _Good_. I don't want to startle her until I have a firm plan in place. She trips on an errant root forcing its way through the sidewalk, and I'm both hopeful and afraid that she'll tumble, perhaps draw blood. Somehow, she stays upright.

I fist my hands and will my legs to keep their maddeningly slow pace, the urge to run and take her overwhelming. My throat burns with thirst, and my stomach twists in pain as my mind flips through a dozen scenarios of what I might do next. Should it be quick, painless? Can I find a way to confine her and make it last longer? I really like the sound of that. I'll need someplace quiet, someplace private, where we won't be disturbed.

In the back of my mind, a muted voice shouts at me to stop, to turn around and run as far and as fast as I can.

I ignore it.

I scan the homes around me for occupants, listening to their thoughts, where inhabited. Most are silent, and I wonder which deserted house I might use for my purposes. A thought pricks at me, forcing its way through the bloodlust. I've been following this girl for minutes now, all attention focused on her, and I have yet to hear a single thought from her mind.

I focus harder, willing her mind to open to me. Nothing. Even the dullest human has something occupying their thoughts at most times. Whether listening to her own footfalls or watching the steady pattern of rain, this girl's mind should not be _silent_.

I waver, disoriented and uncertain.

_What am I doing?_

But all it takes is a gust of wind blowing her scent in my direction, and I'm hooked to the invisible tether again. The mystery of her mind will be solved, perhaps. Or not. I don't really care, as long as I solve the mystery of her taste.

I tense as I feel a presence behind me—another girl. Her thoughts are chanting, _Shit! Shit! Shit! _as her feet pound a matching rhythm on the pavement. A growl slips involuntarily from my throat, too low for the intruder to hear. I steady myself and wait for her to pass.

The girl runs by me, something familiar about her tall, thin frame and dark hair. She carries an umbrella above her head and a messenger bag over her shoulder.

"Bella!" she yells, and my Siren pauses, turning to face her friend. "You forgot your bag—your _keys_!" She lets out a relieved huff as she catches up to the soaking, hooded girl.

The girl, _my_ girl—Bella—scrunches her brows in embarrassment and thanks her friend. As I take in her face for the first time, I feel a stutter in my steps. I've seen lovely women over the decades: fantasies, goddesses even. In many ways, she doesn't compare to the known beauties of the world. Yet, all of her amazing parts—the thick, chestnut hair peeking out of her hood; the pale, heart-shaped face; the full, pink lips (her bottom just slightly larger than her top); the scattering of near-invisible, sun-kissed freckles on her nose; the wide, brown, _knowing_ eyes—combine to make the most stunning creature I've ever seen.

My legs carry me forward, and I notice my hands reaching out to her. I wrangle them to my sides, realizing I'll soon have to pass the couple or face the possibly disastrous consequences. As I near them, I don't know which way I'll go. But the decision is made for me, and I hear my name.

"Edward? _Edward Cullen_?"

I tear my eyes from Bella to the friend who is staring at me in shock and delight. And then I recognize her. A girl from Forks High: mousy, shy, smart. What's her name?

"Angela?" I hear myself ask.

_Right. Angela Weber. _

Suddenly, the fog that has descended these past few minutes lifts, and the world wavers into focus. With horror, I realize how close I've come to destroying a stranger, destroying myself. A cavern of guilt opens up in my chest as I imagine my father's disappointed face.

_What would Carlisle think of my slip? If I hadn't stopped, could he have ever forgiven me? _

I know the answer is yes; he has forgiven such transgressions in the past, but I know just as well that I would never have forgiven myself. To take the life of an innocent is a crime of unimaginable depravity. My psyche could not recover from that. I shake my head in a desperate attempt to clear it, the monster inside crying out against these newly-sober thoughts.

As I glance at Angela, I remember her previous kindness to me. She was one of the few people in Forks who had never shown cruelty of any kind toward my odd family. It's harsh of me to think her "mousy"; she might be a wallflower, but she has a warm heart which gives her a unique kind of beauty.

Only a moment has passed, yet the clarity brought in that moment makes it feel like ages. Angela is excited as she speaks again.

"Wow, you haven't changed at all. What are you doing here? I heard you were in Alaska." She leans forward as though to make contact with me, then thinks better of it. She's kind—not stupid. I glance at Bella, now huddled under the umbrella with her friend, her eyes wide and focused on me.

I inhale unthinkingly, and flames chart a burning path down my throat. Bella's scent is overpowering—too close, too enticing. I stop breathing and search desperately for an escape. The girls stare expectantly, and Angela's increasingly curious thoughts remind me they're waiting for an answer.

"College," I mutter. "MIT."

_Can I just run away?_ I try to lift a foot but find myself rooted inexplicably to the ground.

"That's wonderful! Bella and I go to Emerson. Oh, this is my friend, Bella," she says with a broad smile.

Angela looks at Bella and motions to me. "This is Edward. We graduated from Forks together."

Bella reaches out a tentative hand toward me, and I stare at it blankly. It looks soft. I want to take it—I want to take her. _Can I really just shake her hand? Can I pretend I'm a normal boy meeting a normal girl?_ I guess we'll see.

Still holding my breath, I reach out . . . and I touch her. I feel a jolt go through my palm and up my arm. There's an explosion of warmth running through me, and my body stills as the aftershocks tingle throughout. Her eyes grow impossibly wider, and I can see she feels it, too.

With a shaky breath, I murmur, "A pleasure to meet you, Bella."

She tries to speak, choking on the words a bit. "You too, Edward." The corners of her mouth rise into a hesitant smile, and I realize I haven't released her hand.

I snap.

It's too much. The dark, murderous voice inside me that wants her blood more than anything is howling, _Take her! Kill! Drink!_ But under that is another, more confusing voice—growing insistently louder—that wants something very different, something I'm too scared to think about. It's screaming at me to get out of here as it wrestles the monster into a cage—urging me to run. _Run!_

I make an excuse, unable to meet their confused eyes, and turn back the way I came. I run faster than my carefully crafted facade should allow, not stopping until my apartment door slams behind me, the back of my head banging against it with a resounding crack.

* * *

Thanks for finding your way here! I hope you're enjoying it so far.

Story recommendations:

"Rm w/a Vu" by AngelGoddess1981 - Edward and Bella shack up. Wild hi-jinx ensue.

"Olly Olly Oxen Free" by Dandelion Mind - Moody Bella, hilarious snarky Edward, murder mystery, and beautiful high school noir.


	3. Ch 2 I Want You

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own an inordinate love for wheat beer.

PTB rocks my world! Thanks to HollettLA and RaindropSoup for their work on this chapter.

As always, darcysmom and Marlena516, these lines are better because of you.

Chapter notes: References are made to the poems_ Fire and Ice_ by Robert Frost and _The Second Coming_ by William Butler Yeats

Suggested listening:

"I Want You" by Savage Garden

"Icicle" by Tori Amos

"Satellite Heart" by Anya Marina

* * *

**Bella**

_Okay, that was weird._

My eyes follow the beautiful figure as he runs away, staring at the empty space left in his wake long after he rounds the corner, out of sight. My body still tingles from the shock I felt when our hands touched, and I draw in a shaky breath. Angela coughs and we look at each other, needing no words to express what we think of the strange encounter.

"Um, I should get back to work."

"Yeah, of course." My eyes fly back to the end of the street, hoping he might return. "Thanks for bringing my bag."

I wave her on, missing the cover of the umbrella, and cast one more hopeful glance his way before I reluctantly turn toward home.

I toss my keys onto the table next to the door, shivering as my soaking bag falls at my feet. I know I'll have to empty it and lay the contents out to dry, but I need to get myself warm and dry first. I stumble to my room, pulling my Converse off as I go, plopping them next to the ancient radiator. I crank up the thermostat, irritated more than ever by the stupid rain.

"It's July, for God's sake!" My voice echoes in the empty apartment.

With shaking fingers, I unzip my hoodie and peel off the rest of my clothes, leaving them in a soggy heap. I grab a clean towel and head into the bathroom Angela and I share. Soon, the room is filled with steam, and I step into the battered claw-foot tub, my body tingling as hot water from the shower eases my chill.

Much, much later, my towel is soft and warm as I step from the shower and return to my room. The tension from my icy walk home is gone, but I still feel a strange energy crackling just under my skin, and I'm reminded of a cold, pale hand shooting sparks through my own.

Comfy sweats and a tattered copy of Emily Dickinson poetry lie abandoned as I slide underneath my bed's rumpled covers. I have no patience for delicate lines right now. I want soft sheets against my bare skin; I want whispers of pleasure from the rosy mouth of a stranger.

But it's just me, alone, with my 500-thread count and images of a boy who fled from me as though burned by my touch. A shudder runs through me as I think his name. _Edward_.

I can't imagine the world has ever seen a more exquisite creature. If God had swept down from his cloudy perch and asked me to design Man at his most beautiful, his most alluring, I couldn't have created a more perfect template than Edward Cullen.

Tall and lean with long, sinuous limbs, there's a boyish quality to his smooth face and rumpled tangle of hair. And what color is it? It's almost impossible to describe the exact mix of brown, red, and copper woven through the dripping pile on his head: like molten metal poured into ancient molds. His patrician forehead and strong jaw frame a face so pale it looks translucent, with two perfectly shaped brows and a flushed mouth adorning the space in between. But the eyes. The eyes are what I remember most clearly: enigmatic, black, and timeless. Looking into his eyes is like falling into the primordial sea—vast and deep and so, so dark. The rest of him is boyish, but his eyes are those of a man much past his years, haunted and ripe with secrets.

His mouth was drawn tight, but he stared at me with a hungry longing that I'm sure I'm imagining. As he reached a tentative hand out to me, all I could think of was excavating his secrets, digging my way through his wary facade to the tantalizing mysteries behind those eyes.

Then our hands touched, and I imploded.

Everything vanished—Angela, the rain, the earth and sky—all gone, all lost to the crackle of energy between our fingers. A wall of oblivion surrounded me, the pinpoint of my focus drawn to him, to his haunting black eyes.

And before I knew what was happening, he was gone, leaving my body reeling from his absence. I've never felt anything like it before. No one—not the silly, sloppy boys from high school or the would-be paramours of my freshman year—prepared me for this feeling of fire raging through my body, the promising ache swirling deep in my secret places. And he had only touched my hand.

_How would it feel if he touched _other_ parts of me?_

With that thought, I realize my hand has been busy running a lazy trail from my collar to my belly, brushing ever so slightly against the soft swell in between.

_This is new._

Suddenly, it's not my hand anymore. The fingers teasing my soft flesh are strong and cold, with blue veins peeking through alabaster skin. My body sings in anticipation, and I close my eyes, allowing myself to feel the gentle exploration of his hands.

He runs his fingers slowly up and down my sternum, keeping to the valley between my breasts with a maddening focus. I arch my back, silently pleading for his touch to travel outward, but I feel only the sheets rubbing against me, tender peaks tightening at the sensation.

A frustrated groan escapes me as the fingers move north, away from my pounding heart, away from the soft places calling out to him. But as his hand maps a trail through the hollow of my throat, winds up my neck and over my jaw, resting finally on my mouth, I take a finger between my teeth and suck. Now it's not me groaning. I hear his voice, his quiet pleading, and I am awash in feelings of power and desire. I want more. I want to consume all of him, and more than anything I want to be consumed.

At once, his lips are on mine and his hand has given up the fight, reaching roughly for a soft mound on my chest. He squeezes forcefully, brushing a cool thumb across my nipple as his tongue tangles with mine. I shudder from the exquisite tingle shooting from my breast to my center, and as he pinches the delicate flesh, the tingle bursts into a flame.

My mouth pulls away from his, my head flinging back into the pillow as I gasp at the unbelievable sensation between my legs. He hasn't even touched me there, but I feel wet and tender and _alive_.

He takes the break of our mouths as an invitation, and his lips follow his hands south, running scorching kisses along my jaw and neck, teasing the dip above my clavicle, and finally alighting at the breast that isn't otherwise occupied by his hand. As his mouth runs a circular trail, spiraling inward from the edges, drawing closer and closer to the aching peak, I feel my tenuous grasp on reality slip. It falls away completely as his cool mouth closes over me, giving me what I want—promising so much more.

My heart races now, the thudding rhythm of a thoroughbred's, and I hear myself calling his name over and over. He works me over, his hands and mouth torturing the virgin flesh of my chest, and a ribbon of desire winds lower and lower with each grasp, each lick.

Just when I think I can't take any more, he releases the tight crown of my breast and moves his mouth lower, nipping the smooth expanse of my stomach before dipping his tongue into my bellybutton. His hands grasp my hips possessively as his mouth explores every inch of my belly. Goosebumps break out across my flesh as a confusing swirl of sensation overtakes me. I feel hollow and brimming full all at once; I am burning with the fires of Hell and freezing to my core. The delicious caress of his mouth moves lower, and my aching need—still unsatisfied—calls from between my legs. I want his touch. I want his mouth. I want _him_ inside me—however I can have him.

As if reading my mind, his mouth descends and his hands move under the soft flesh of my bottom, gripping my thighs as he pulls them apart. He hovers over my hipbone, teasing with cool breath and sharp teeth, and I risk a glance at his face. He's watching me, black eyes full of desire and something else, something dark and feral. Seeing my need, his mouth curls into a smirk.

"Please, Edward!"

I'm beseeching him, yet I feel no shame in begging. _Show mercy on me! Give me what I want!_ At last he acquiesces, his nose brushing against the curls between my legs as he inhales deeply and moans. Then his tongue plunges between my folds to the throbbing bundle of nerves waiting there, and I am undone.

My world narrows until all I know is the feeling of his wet mouth on me—his tongue mapping out places I never dreamed of being explored. It's too much. It's not enough. My head thrashes against the pillow while the rest of my limbs tense in anticipation. I don't know what's ahead of me, but I want it—more than I have ever wanted anything.

Edward continues his torturous exploration while the ribbon of desire winds tighter and tighter between my legs. One last flick of his tongue, and at last the ribbon breaks, unfurling wildly, wrapping every limb in silken caresses. Exquisite pleasure washes through me like nothing I have imagined, and I cry out a shattered scream.

My fingers continue with a gentle caress until my quaking body falls still once more. I pull my hands up to my stomach, exhaling a shuddering sigh. It feels like I've just taken the last breath of my childhood.

_Oh. _

_My. _

_God._

I had no idea. No idea. A feeling of loss washes over me as I grieve years of wasted opportunity. _What have I been missing?_

The answer is simple: Edward.

My eyes flutter open, and I stare at the cracks in my sloped ceiling, unashamed of the ridiculous grin on my face. My breath lengthens. My heartbeat slows. The radiator rattles, forcing hot air out of hundred-year-old pipes, and the incessant pitter-patter of rain has stopped.

I turn my head to the window and freeze; a terrified scream escapes my mouth, and I bolt upright, snatching covers to my chest.

I will never forget the image before me. Balancing cat-like on the narrow ledge of my windowsill perches Edward—in the flesh, not a fantasy—his wide eyes reflecting my own shock and embarrassment. In the moment before his body leaps away—falling, falling to certain death—a narrow beam of sunlight breaks through the dense clouds, illuminating his shimmering skin.

* * *

**Edward**

_I am a monster._

My legs buckle, my body sliding down my door and landing crumpled on the floor.

_I am a **monster**._

Despair fills me as I replay the scene in my head: catching her glorious scent, following it to certain doom, imagining my teeth sinking into tender flesh and drinking deep, never thinking of the creature I would destroy in the process. I think of the way I allowed the beast inside to take over—the ease with which I planned her demise and _relished_ the thought of taking my time. Had Angela not intervened, my course was clear and it would have ended in blood.

_Bella's blood._

Her name sends a jolt of longing through me, and I let out a ragged breath. I picture her face, her innocent eyes, and a smile comes unbidden to my mouth. There's an unfamiliar throbbing between my legs, and I gasp in horror. With sudden clarity, I understand the thoughts I've plucked from the minds of others all these years—feelings that have, until now, eluded me—a feeling of hunger for another person that has nothing to do with blood. I've seen it in my family and countless others: the need to be close, to touch, to consume. It was all theoretical before, but now I've had a taste of it myself, and I'm terrified to discover I want more.

_Some say the world will end in fire,_

_Some say in ice._

_From what I've tasted of desire_

_I hold with those who favor fire._

As I imagine Bella's fathomless, deep brown eyes, flames tear through me, and I can see my world ending in a roaring inferno, as Robert Frost once surmised. There is a name for my affliction.

Desire.

Even as I think it, I know I cannot—_cannot_—act on these feelings. _And here I thought I was a monster before._ Entertaining the possibility of being with fragile, human Bella in such a way proves the absence of my soul more certainly than even my rebellious years.

_I should leave—run back to my family, run away from her scent and her face and my burning need._

With a sick realization, I know I won't do it. I can't pull myself away from her, can't stand the thought of never seeing her again.

What if I never see her again? _Oh God, what if I never see her again?_

A hole opens up inside me at the thought, an empty black cavern. Panic rises in me as I imagine never again laying my eyes on her exquisite form. Greater than the guilt of what I almost did, greater than the fear of what I might yet do, is a mountain of anguish at the thought of a life without her in it.

_What if it's too late already? Can I find her? I know where she's been—that coffee shop, Black Ground—but will she go back? Should I wait for her there? Should I try to catch her scent?_

My body is out the door before I know what's happening. I can't wait. I can't risk losing her trail, losing the only thing that has inspired any feeling in me besides emptiness for so long.

If I'm going to Hell, I might as well do it thoroughly.

I fly down deserted streets, risking exposure yet again with my barely-human pace. The rain is slowing, a steady trickle now rather than an unrelenting downpour; the streets will be populated soon, and it would be beyond foolish to keep up this pace much longer. I'm so close to her scent, so close to finding her. I fly past the hospital, past the coffee shop, around the corner, and I pray that her scent lingers, that I can pick up the trail. I breathe in roughly through my nose and _there_—faint, but there—is her glorious essence.

My throat aches in response—a reminder of the misguided nature of this mission—but I ignore the dry burn and continue on my course. I follow the trail down residential streets, turning a corner, up another block, before finally ending at a three-story, canary-colored Victorian house. I walk a few paces left, then right, detecting nothing. The trail ends here. Either it's gone or I've found my destination.

Purple hydrangeas border the walkway to the entrance, and I tremble as I approach the snow-white door, fearful of what I might find here—more fearful of what I might not find.

I scan the mailboxes lined up outside the door, praying I have the right place, and there it is, a tentative confirmation shooting a blossoming hope into my chest:

#3 Swan/Weber

Bella Swan. Of course her name is Bella Swan. I feel a prickling memory work its way into my consciousness. I know another Swan—Charlie Swan, Police Chief of Forks.

_Are they related? Chief Swan is a bachelor; he doesn't have a daughter, does he? Maybe a niece? How exactly do Angela and Bella know each other?_

I feel a rush of excitement, thinking perhaps Bella was closer to me than I'd ever realized. _Has she been to Forks, only to slip away without my knowledge? Has fate aligned us now, having denied us before?_

_I'm getting ahead of myself. I don't even know for sure that she lives here. Maybe Bella and Angela aren't roommates. Maybe I've lost the trail and she's gone now. I have to find out._

I scan the house for signs of life. I detect no thoughts in the building, but as I've learned about Bella's peculiar mind, that doesn't mean she's not here. I walk around the side of the house and through a wooden gate to the backyard. On the back of the house are three modest decks stacked one above another. Based on the number on the mailbox, I know the third floor is my most likely destination, but I scale each deck in turn, scanning the units for some telltale sound, some betraying scent, just in case.

When I reach the third floor, I finally hear it: a fluttering heartbeat as fast as a hummingbird's. It sounds unusual—too fast, erratic. I follow the sound to the side of the deck: a pitched roof with three dormers pushing out of the slope. I want to be closer. If I can just see her face, just confirm that she lives here, I'll know all isn't lost.

_I'll just make sure she's here, then I'll walk away—yes—I will walk away and think about how to approach her again, more safely._

Then—as though the universe is amusing itself by tempting my resolve—I hear a voice. _Her_ voice. It sounds desperate and high, and she's saying—

_What? _

She's saying my name. Over and over again.

_Does she know I'm here?_ I search frantically for signs that I've been seen. Nothing. The single window on the deck reveals only an empty, modest kitchen. Her voice trails to me again—through the wall, I realize.

_You know she's here. Leave now._

But I can't tear myself away. Her voice, her heartbeat, her breath—it's all wrong; she sounds panicked. I have to find her, make sure she's okay—the irony of that thought does not escape me. I fly to the corner of the house again, searching for her behind the infuriating wall separating us. I climb over the wooden railing and pull myself up on the roof, moving toward the first dormer a few feet away. The sloping roof poses no challenge, and soon, I'm perched on the window ledge.

Her voice rings out with a desperate cry, "Please, Edward!" Just as I realize the tenor is not that of panic but something else entirely, my eyes find her inside her room.

And there is nothing in my hundred years on earth that could have prepared me for this sight. I nearly slip from the ledge as I take in Bella . . . on her bed. Bella . . . writhing underneath the covers. Bella . . . crying out my name.

In less than a second, I've absorbed the whole unbelievable scene: Bella's face is scrunched in concentration, her wet hair a messy halo around her head, her bare shoulders peeking out from a white comforter. Under the covers, her hands move between her legs, and I feel my limbs tremble as I take in the earth-shattering beauty of Bella reaching her climax.

My thoughts are an incoherent jumble. _What did I just see? What does it mean? Why am I just _sitting_ here? _

I'm frozen, my body unwilling to move, my mind screaming obscenities at me. Just as I register the inhuman glow coming from my skin, a terrified scream snaps me to consciousness, and I watch in horror as Bella's eyes meet my own. Without thinking, I find the only escape I can, leaping away from the building and falling with a soft thud to the wet grass below, before running—once again—away from the beautiful creature I'm sure will be my demise.

Shame clouds my thoughts, but as I fly down the street, I swear I hear her soft voice calling my name.

* * *

**Bella**

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no! _

My stomach drops, and I'm swept into a fathomless ocean of misery. My mind battles over the greater horror: Edward's plummeting body or my own rocketing shame.

I leap to the window, my blanket trailing behind me as I feebly attempt to keep myself covered. I unhook the lock and push the glass, terrified of what I might see. Down on the ground, where Edward's broken body should be splayed and bleeding is . . . nothing. A small divot in the earth mars the landscaping, but otherwise the scene is empty. I search left and right for him, perhaps limping away miraculously unharmed, but the only thing that greets me is the soft rustle of leaves.

"Edward?"

I aim for a shout, but it comes out barely a whisper.

Waiting for Angela to come home is the hardest thing I have ever done.

I dress quickly, intending to go talk to her immediately and demand some answers. I get as far as my front door before I realize I can't barge into Black Ground and make a scene, grilling her about her old friend. A friend who climbed up to my window to peep at me, then jumped three stories down and disappeared. And, oh yeah, he _sparkles_.

It sounds crazy.

I feel crazy, that's for sure. Did I really see what I thought I did, or was it just some lingering vision from my fantasy? That doesn't really hold, as a flying, sparkling, creepster Edward is resolutely _not_ inspiring warm fuzzy feelings.

I pace the living room, wearing a hole into the braided rug under my feet. I can't keep my hands still; I keep reaching for the phone, wanting to talk to someone, needing someone to tell me I'm not insane. But when I go over the story in my mind, there's no way I can say it out loud. Even if I gloss over exactly what I was doing in my room as Edward looked on, who would believe what had happened after?

Renee would humor me. She might even say she believed I saw what I saw, but most likely she'd pull out some New Agey theory about residual auras or something. If he didn't hop on a plane to track down the alleged voyeur, Charlie would tell me to go to the hospital and have my head checked. Angela is at work, so I can't call her—and she'll be home soon, anyway. The person I really want to talk to about all this is the last one I can. First of all, I don't have his number; second, I'm pretty sure I'm too mortified to ever speak to him again.

_Oh, God, I can't believe he saw me do . . . that!_

It's horrifying—him seeing me touch myself, hearing me call out _his_ name. Flames of embarrassment consume my body, and I groan in shame.

It feels like some kind of sick joke, as though the universe is punishing me.

_I mean, really, the first time I explore a little . . . self-gratification . . . the object of my fantasy sees the whole thing! How does that happen? And leaving aside how he climbed up three stories without a ladder, why the hell was he at my window, anyway?_

I can't wrap my brain around the idea that he might have some kind of attraction to me. He's gorgeous in an otherworldly way—so completely out of my league, I'd need star systems, not miles, to describe the distance.

_But why else would he be at my window? And did he leave because he was embarrassed, like me, or was he just so disgusted by the idea of me thinking about him that way?_

Around and around I go, circling unanswered questions, my mind turning and turning in a widening gyre. By the time I hear Angela's key slip into the lock, I'm a frantic mess. I pounce on her as soon as she crosses the threshold.

"Angela, what do you know about Edward? Did he ever—? Is he—?" I stop and curse myself.

I've had hours to consider my questions, but I haven't really thought them through. What can I ask? _Did he ever survive a 30-foot drop in front of you? Did you ever notice his skin shines like diamonds in the sun? Was he always a peeping tom?_

That last one seems slightly less pressing, but still important.

Angela furrows her brow and steps back from me, confused. "Bella, what about Edward? Are you okay?" She holds up her hands defensively, the way one might approach a wild dog.

_Oh, shit, I'm scaring her._ This is not how this was supposed to happen. I take a deliberate step back, giving her space, and draw in a long breath.

"I'm sorry. I was just thinking about Edward and how there was something kind of . . . off about him. You know him. Was he always like that?" The question sounds feeble, but I hope she'll just take it at face value and answer.

She looks slightly mollified and walks in, hanging up her coat while she gathers her thoughts.

"Well, he always kept to himself—all the Cullens did. He's got a big family. They're all adopted, I think. None of them really made friends with anyone else." I watch her eagerly, drinking in any details I can gather. "But Alice—his sister—was always really nice. She was my lab partner in Bio one year."

_That's it? She has to know more!_

"But what about Edward? Did he ever act strange? Or . . . do anything . . . unusual?" _My God, I sound like an idiot._

"Bella, what's this about?" Angela looks me over warily.

_What can I say?_

"It's nothing." I search frantically for some plausible excuse for my behavior. "It's just, when he ran off like that, it was so weird. And we had this moment when he shook my hand that . . ." _That what? Shot electricity through my body? Nearly made me come?_ That isn't any better than telling her about his visit to my window.

"Nevermind. I was just curious about him."

She knows I'm hiding something, but she doesn't press. That's what I love about Angela: she understands the value of a good silence.

She sends one more concerned glance my way before heading into her room to drop off her bag. When she comes back, there's a thoughtful look on her face. She rests against her doorframe and stares at me for a long time before seeming to come to some decision.

"Look, Bella, I don't like to talk about the Cullens because in high school people were so mean to them. Nobody really knew them, but that didn't stop the rumors." She looks down, staring through the floor, seeing something far away. "But I think I know what you're talking about, and yeah, I noticed it too."

My heart races. _What will she say? What does she know?_

"There were times when it seemed like Edward—his whole family, really—was just . . . different. Like they were all playing a role."

She meets my eyes, and I know I won't get any more from her. That's okay. She's given me enough.

* * *

**Edward**

I've ruined everything. Any chance I might have had is gone.

_Ruined what_? I think, bitterly, as I pace my apartment. _Did you think Bella was going to fall in love and make little vampire babies with you?_

With that I stop, my body as still as a statue. What is this about "love"? How did I go from thoughts of hunger to lust to _love_ in less than an hour?

I'm not in love—_cannot_ be in love. I don't know the girl. Desire for her blood and her body are being confused with something else. I can't actually be entertaining the possibility of being with her in that way.

Then the world drops out from under me as I realize, yes, I can. I don't know her, but I _want_ to. That's more than I can say for any single human I've encountered since I was changed. Seeing her in her room so full of passion, so unrestrainedly blissful, has ignited in me a long-dormant spark—a desire to be near her, to find out everything I possibly can about this enigmatic and enthralling creature.

If her words are any indication, she might be feeling something similar for me.

Which returns me to being discovered at her bedroom window; if there was a bud of hope, it's now been hopelessly crushed.

_I need to talk to someone._ _Maybe there's a way to repair the damage I've done, but I can't see it. I need help._ I turn on my phone and discover fifteen messages from Alice.

_Of course. She saw everything._

I listen to the first one: "Edward, you need to stop! You're going to do something horrible that you'll regret! Just turn around and walk away." She pauses, presumably seeing some new horror, and groans. "Please, Edward, call me back. Soon!"

I listen to the others; most of them are similar in message and tone. Alice must have been calling me the entire time I followed Bella from Black Ground. Finally, I get to the last two messages.

"Edward, if you go to her home, she'll know. She'll find out about us, and our lives will all be in danger. _Her_ life will be in danger! Please, _please_ call me!"

_What have I done? Am I jeopardizing my family? Am I jeopardizing Bella?_ The thought sends a jolt of fear down my spine.

I'm just about to call Alice back when her final message starts to play. "I was wrong. This might not be as bad as I thought. It could go either way. But you have to tread carefully. If you really want this, you need to proceed . . . delicately."

* * *

Thanks for reading, dearies!

Story recommendation:

"Simple Mistakes" by NinaQ - Fantastic AH Alice/Jasper story that has been woefully under-viewed. Give it some love!


	4. Ch 3 I Will Possess Your Heart

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a million legos and puzzle pieces underfoot.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, or recommending this story. I really appreciate the love.

Thank you, darcysmom and Marlena516, for wrestling with these lines. Stalkerward wouldn't be the same without you.

Chapter notes: Reference is made to the poem _Hope_ by Emily Dickinson

Suggested listening:

"I Follow Rivers" by Lykke Li

"I Will Possess Your Heart" by Death Cab for Cutie

* * *

**Edward**

I'm in position by the time dawn peaks across the tented roof of the yellow house; I wait, silent and still, in the dark shelter of the crumbling garage across the street. The owner of the garage is inside the adjoining home, her steady heartbeat matching slow, even breath. She's still asleep and will be until late morning, dreaming of her long-dead, beloved husband, Henry. I'm growing quite fond of the old woman—not only for unwittingly offering me this shelter, but also for the companionable presence of her thoughts. She's lived a long and interesting life; listening to her dreams is like reading a well-worn novel.

As I watch the yellow house and wait for the object of my vigil, I reach into my pocket and pull out the familiar blue fabric, holding it to my nose and breathing in deeply. I feel a dull ache in my throat, but the venom doesn't pool. I'm getting stronger.

After a while I hear muffled steps and focus on the white door across the way, waiting to see if she'll trip on the threshold as she so often does, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. Her blush is quickly becoming my favorite sight.

It's a warm, sunny day—her favorite kind—but you can't tell from the scowl she wears as she tromps down her front steps and pops two earbuds in, starting her music with the angry tap of a finger.

I wonder what has her in such a bad mood.

Her hair is down, messy and textured as though she's just hopped out of bed. She wears a pink t-shirt reading "Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner" and tattered jeans that hug her hips and fall loosely down to the rubber soles of her black Converse. She's breathtaking, as always. She makes her way past the purple hydrangeas in her yard, heavy with their blooms, and turns right on the sidewalk. Her eyes are watchful—searching, searching for something.

I know her routine by now, can predict it easily. It's still early and she has a few hours before her shift at Black Ground starts at noon, so she'll wander the blocks around her house for a short while before exploring another, more distant, Cambridge neighborhood. Maybe Kendall Square today, or Porter.

She never seems to have a destination in mind, but her stride is anything but aimless. I draw in a deep breath, feeling her scent wash over me, and pick my way amid the shadows of neighboring houses, keeping close enough to hold onto her trail. I thrill to be so close, thrill to feel my control so firmly in place.

I wonder if she'll make any stops today. Occasionally, she steps into a store that catches her eye—used books or records or clothes—but she rarely buys anything. I smile to myself, envisioning her apartment full of second-hand finds; I so badly want to ask her if she ever purchases anything new. I'm always tempted to follow her into these quiet, dusty stores, but I hold myself back. I owe her an apology and whatever explanation I can afford, and that isn't a conversation for a public venue. Besides, the enclosed space of a tiny shop would challenge my resistance to her scent, even improved as it is.

She moves in a northwesterly direction. Cambridge streets are tangled like a spiderweb, intersections all acute and obtuse angles—remnants of the narrow carriage lanes that once criss-crossed the land. As she approaches Massachusetts Avenue, I sigh. The large double-lane road will provide little shelter for me, and I'll have to wind my way along parallel side streets if I want to keep up with her. Perhaps I'll get lucky with a sudden push of cloud cover.

I long for the moment when this watching and waiting will be over, when I can finally approach her as I so desperately want—as a gentleman, as a suitor. I know my behavior is beyond reproachful, know she wouldn't want her every waking move watched, but I can't stay away. She's pulling me to her, a sun drawing me inextricably into her orbit. And I need this time to acclimate; Alice assures me it's the right thing to do.

It's been six days since our first encounter. Six days of watching and learning. Six days of preparing.

I'm almost ready.

* * *

**Six Days Ago**

"Alice. Please . . . what do I do?" Desperation clouds my voice, and my feet tread an unending path on the floor.

"Edward. First, you have to calm down. You were amazing—you didn't kill her! We're all so proud of you!" Even over the phone I can feel her buzzing with excitement.

I want to strangle her.

"You told the family? I was hoping we could keep this between us."

"Too late," she chirps. "Don't worry, I didn't tell them about what Bella was doing when you—"

"ALICE!"

She huffs petulantly. "You really are no fun. Look, everyone is very pleased you didn't kill someone today, alright? Although, Emmett's a little jealous you were able to resist your singer—she _is_ your singer, right?"

I study her question.

Yes, I suppose Bella is my singer; I've never felt a stronger pull to someone's scent—nothing remotely close. But a longing for her blood doesn't even begin to describe the attraction. I decide to keep my answer simple.

"Yes."

"But she's more than that?"

Leave it to Alice to see through me. I hear a commotion in the background; various expressions of shock and confusion ring out, one over the other. Though I can't make out the words, the tenor of Rosalie's anger is easiest to decipher.

My family's reaction only reinforces the impossibility of my situation.

"Alice, what do I _do_?" I repeat. "She's _human_. I can't possibly—" But I can't even bring myself to say the words. To voice them would fill me with a hope I don't deserve. A hope I can't afford.

I pull my focus to Alice's voice, which suddenly turns tentative and soft. "She doesn't have to be, you know."

"Doesn't have to be what?"

"Human."

"NO!" I roar.

I feel a slight crack in the plastic under my grip, and I struggle to quell my rage. Through the phone, I hear the response from the rest of my family is also swift and—mostly—unfavorable. It comforts me that at least some of them are thinking clearly. When my voice finally comes back, it's menacing.

"Absolutely not, Alice. She's human, and she will stay that way."

Alice backpedals swiftly. "Fine, fine, you want her to stay human." She pauses, considering her words. "It's just, I've seen . . ."

"What?"

When she speaks, it's with finality. "Look, the future isn't clear."

She isn't going to answer me. Not for the first time, I'm irritated that my power doesn't work through the phone. I pray she isn't seeing what I think she might be. I can't hurt Bella that way. I can't subject her to this "life."

After a moment she continues, "I do know one thing—you cannot go back there tonight."

My shoulders slump in disappointment. I hadn't even realized I was thinking of returning to Bella's home until Alice told me not to. "But don't you think I should apologize, try to explain? She must be so scared, so confused—she saw me, Alice. _In the sun_. What if she talks to someone? We could all be in danger."

In the background I catch snippets of Rosalie's venomous commentary. ". . . fucking brilliant . . . little late for that . . . goddamned idiot . . ."

Alice raises her voice, addressing both myself and the unseen audience. "She is confused, but that's working in our favor right now; she's not going to tell anyone." I try to protest, but she cuts me off.

"When's the last time you hunted, Edward?"

Oh.

Of course I can't go back there tonight. I was barely able to control myself this afternoon—I _wouldn't_ have controlled myself if it hadn't been for Angela's interruption. I need to hunt before I see her again. I'm already forming a plan when Alice interrupts my thoughts again.

"No, Edward, you can't talk to her tomorrow either; you'd just have the same reaction you did today. You're going to have to acclimate yourself, get used to her scent. Can you get something of hers?"

Over the line I hear my other sister shout, "Are you honestly telling him to pursue this?"

There's a scuffle, then Carlisle's voice faintly prods, "Emmett, why don't you take Rosalie for a walk?"

When things seem to settle, I return to Alice's question. "Get something?"

"Some clothing—a shirt, maybe."

I imagine sneaking into Bella's home while she isn't there. It would be a worse betrayal than I've already committed. Can I do it? _ If it will help keep her safe,_ I decide,_ yes, I can do it._ I ignore the taunting voice in the back of my head that points out it isn't just about keeping Bella safe. I can keep her safest by simply staying away.

"Yes, Alice, I can get something." I try to hide the excitement in my voice. In spite of myself, I'm beginning to feel a flicker of hope. A whisper of an old Dickinson poem works its way into my mind:

_ Hope is the thing with feathers _

_ That perches in the soul, _

_ And sings the tune_—_without the words, _

_ And never stops at all_

Let my hope be a nightingale, then, not a vulture.

I tune in just as Alice addresses another member of my family. "Yes, Carlisle, I understand. But fighting this is futile, and if he doesn't prepare himself, it will end . . . poorly."

I hear Carlisle's response, stilted fragments of doubt and concern.

I want to be home, sitting around the dining room table discussing this as a unit, as I know we would were circumstances different. I need the guidance of my whole family, not this piecemeal conversation. But if I can't be with all of them, at least I can seek the advice of the person I most respect.

"Alice, may I please speak with Carlisle?"

Alice huffs in annoyance and mutters, "It won't change anything," as she hands the phone to my father.

"Hello, son." In an instant I feel like a child. Lost. Helpless. Desperate for the wisdom I know he can offer.

"Hi, Dad." My voice is a shell, straining like cracked pottery.

"Oh, Edward, I can't imagine how you must be feeling."

"Am I crazy? I feel like nothing makes sense anymore." For the first time in hours my body stills. I fall onto the sofa, emotionally exhausted.

"Tell me more. You . . ."—he hesitates to form the word—". . . like the girl?"

"Oh, that doesn't even begin to cover it," I answer with a moan. "I'm drawn to her—and not just her blood. There's something about her that makes me feel . . . warm . . . and whole. Rationally, I know I should stay away from her; I should come home and forget about school. But when I consider it, something inside me starts screaming. It's like I'm being ripped apart."

In the background, Alice and Esme confer in high, twittering voices.

"And do you have any indication that the feelings are returned?" I tug at my hair violently, picturing Bella's flushed face, her desperate voice calling out my name.

"Yes. There seems to be some mutual . . . attraction."

"Alice is under the impression you could build up a sort of resistance to her scent. Even if that were the case, you know that a relationship like this is unheard of in our community."

I can hear the apology in his voice. He doesn't want to point out the obvious, but of course, someone has to.

"But what about the Denalis? They've been with humans." I'm grasping, I know.

"Yes, they've managed a physical relationship with their human lovers, but they've never revealed the secret of our nature. This girl has seen you in the sun?"

My stomach clenches at the memory of her horrified face.

"Yes."

"Son, you have to consider that your thirst is not the only danger to her; knowledge of our existence is perhaps more of a threat to her safety." Almost so quietly I can't hear him, he adds, ". . . and ours."

Carlisle's memories of the Italian trio, shared with me long ago, pop into my head. They would have no sympathy for my predicament, and their justice would be both swift and brutal. Were the situation discovered, I could only hope that they would leave my family out of it.

"I know, Carlisle. I don't know what to say!" I feel cool glass under my fingertips and realize I'm staring out the window, as though the answer were there on the damp street below. The rain has started again, water slicing broken rivulets down the glass. It does nothing to lift my mood. "I feel like I have to take the risk. Even if I regret it, even if it ends me. I simply can't see another way."

He sighs heavily. "Then do what you must, son. You deserve an opportunity for the same happiness granted the rest of us." I'm surprised by the smile I hear in his response. He pauses, listening to someone on the other end. "Your mother wishes me to ask if we might visit. She thinks we could be of some assistance."

"No!" I'm horrified at the thought. "I won't put you—any of you—at risk. The less you're involved, the less danger to you all." I'm determined that if the Volturi do intervene, they will have no excuse to harm my family.

"As you wish," he acquiesces, "but the offer stands, should you reconsider." There's more to discuss—how I might approach Bella, what I might say to her when I do—but I need to get over the hurdle of my bloodlust first, and for that I need Alice. Carlisle senses the shift in my thoughts and offers, "Would you like to speak with Alice?"

"Yes, please. And Carlisle?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you." I feel a pressure in the corner of my eyes, an alien prickle inside long-closed tear ducts.

"Of course, my son. Of course."

Alice comes back on the line to talk strategy. As long as I spend enough time around Bella's scent, she assures me, my control should be firmly in place within a week. I try not to focus too intently on that "should." I thank her and tell her to spread the word that I will be in touch.

Before signing off she adds, "Oh, and Edward? Don't get greedy—just take the _shirt_, okay?" I ponder her meaning as she disconnects, certain I hear her mutter "perv" before the line goes dead.

I hunt that night, barely registering the feel of the kill, warm liquid flowing down my throat. My mind is consumed with thoughts of Bella. I'm back in Cambridge before the sun is up. I find myself outside Bella's apartment, waiting for her and Angela to leave so I might complete my mission. I spy the brown clapboard house with its broken-down garage across the street and slip into the dusty shelter, greeted by spiders and the steady drip of rain.

Hours later, Bella pads down her front steps, and I suck in a breath as her scent wafts toward me like a lover's call. I steady myself, gripping the sides of the wooden-framed structure, feeling a board splinter in my hand. I freeze. Under her umbrella, Bella's head snaps up at the sound, and I curse myself for my stupidity.

_Why didn't I just wait a few hours? Why did I have to watch her leave the house? _

_I was greedy; I needed a glimpse of her to get through my day. _

For a moment, I'm sure she'll cross the street, explore the ink-black recess where I'm hiding, and all will be lost. Time stands still as she stares into me, through me.

Finally, I let out my breath as she turns and moves down the sidewalk away from me, trailing her glorious scent behind.

Angela leaves not long after, and I move out of the protection of shadows and into the damp, grey morning. The house reveals no signs of life, so I climb the three stories to Bella's apartment. I pick the lock and step through the threshold, closing the door behind me.

With the first inhale, I realize my horrible mistake. The world falls away, and I'm shuddering on the floor as acid burns a path from my tongue to my belly. Razor fingers scrape at my neck, willing the pain away. It's a torture worse than anything I've ever felt—save for those three horrifying days of my change. Her scent is infused in every inch, every molecule of this space, and I'm drowning. It's like being crushed in soft velvet, suffocated by a heavenly cloud stuffed down my nose and throat.

I feel the monster inside clawing for dominance, a red haze blurring my vision as I search for something to rip into, someone to sate this unbearable hunger.

_I have to leave_.

I'm scrabbling for the doorknob when my eyes land on a rumpled blanket hanging over the edge of an armchair. A single image pops out at me—a cartoon snake slinking out of a taco—and the sheer absurdity of the sight distracts me infinitesimally from the burning fire raging through me. It's enough.

By degrees I pull my attention to the room, desperate for the smallest handhold, the barest crimp in the rock-face of my sanity. My eyes roam the space, examining the indelible mark Bella has left in her absence. With determination, I find myself cataloguing everything, focusing on the objects and how they might inform the mystery of Bella.

_What will they say about her? What can I learn?_

Slowly, the overpowering flame recedes to a throbbing ache. The pain is ever-present, but manageable.

I pull myself from the floor and take a moment to steady myself. I'm in a living room. The gabled roof peaks in the middle, drawing down in an inverse V to the walls. The low ceiling and odd angles of the space indicate it was once an attic, a difficult floor plan to navigate. But the furniture has been placed thoughtfully, turning awkward corners into what Esme might dub "charming nooks."

Thinking of Esme helps; the image of her kind eyes is a salve on the burn in my throat. I must remember who I am, the man my family believes me to be. I will not be a monster.

I take a tentative step into the room, brushing my hand along a battered table near the front door. The wood is chipped and scarred, the stain long faded. In fact, all of the furnishings are weathered—an eclectic mix of second-hand pieces and thrift store finds. The space is shaped like a blocky L; in the uppermost corner is the kitchen. The living room winds down and around to the right. A wall along the negative space of the L is broken by three doors; bedrooms and bath, I presume. An overstuffed velour armchair divides kitchen from living room, the rumpled blanket that first caught my eye slung over the arm.

The blanket is heavy with Bella's scent, and I swallow down pooling venom as I approach. My fingers read the chipped images like braille, and I realize it's a quilt made of t-shirts, a haphazard chronicle of bizarre travel destinations and peculiar events. My hand trembles as I realize Bella has worn these shirts, visited these places. I memorize the logo of each quilted square, and think of one day visiting the Texas Prison Museum or the Paragon Bar and Grill, perhaps with Bella as my guide.

It's reckless, this kind of thought.

_Push it down. Do what you came here to do._

My tour of the rest of the apartment is swift. The first door reveals a bedroom adorned with photography—Angela's, from the scent. The second is a small bathroom with a claw-foot tub. The third is my intended destination: Bella's room.

I take a moment to adjust to the increased potency of her scent—_how can it possibly be stronger?_—and observe all I can. It's much like the living room. Warm, inviting. The walls are plastered with posters. I appreciate Bella's eclectic taste in music—Billie Holiday, The Pixies, Jeff Buckley. On the right-hand wall is a worn dresser topped with family photos, which I eagerly examine. In one, Bella stands between a middle-aged woman and a slightly younger man. Both are tan, sandy blond, and smiling. Bella wears a cap and gown, and though she looks uncomfortable having her photo taken, her eyes betray her happiness. I pause at the second photo, recognizing one of the figures well. Charlie Swan, Police Chief of Forks, is flanked by a much younger Bella and a costumed Mickey Mouse. Charlie's chagrined expression matches Bella's from her graduation picture. Little Bella's smile, however, is bright and unrestrained.

I try to fit the pieces of the familial puzzle together and realize that the two blonds are together, but the man is too young to be Bella's father—not to mention their complete lack of resemblance. Step-father, then. And Chief Swan is probably Bella's father. Same dark hair, same deep brown eyes. I scan the remaining pictures—a black and white photo of a young couple from the 1950s and an older couple captured sometime in the '80s—grandparents, most likely. I continue my perusal of the room.

Next to the dresser is a small desk topped with books and a laptop. A tall, narrow shelf next to the desk holds more books, and these I explore eagerly, thankful for the opportunity to learn more about my lovely Bella. I find a large mix of fiction—classic, literary, popular—and some poetry, a few history and art books, and the typical collection of first-year college textbooks.

Finally, I turn toward the center of the room—my eyes landing on the rumpled bed—and I tense. The image of Bella writhing under her covers fills my vision, and I feel my body react shamefully in response. I'm drawn to the bed, entranced. Without thinking, I push the covers back a bit, bend down and breathe in her heady essence: the scent of her skin and her blood and her arousal. I groan as fire sears my throat, but it's the sweetest kind of torture.

Suddenly, a wave of guilt crashes over me as Bella's terrified eyes and piercing scream tears through my memory. It's such a horrible betrayal to be here, invading Bella's space and stealing from her after all I've already done. I vow this will be the last time I enter her room uninvited.

For now, it's a necessary evil if I'm ever going to get close to her again, and I decide to finish my task as quickly as possible. I scan the room and find her laundry hamper inside a small closet. Rummaging through, I hope to land on something she won't miss, something easy to carry with me.

_There. It's perfect._

I pick up a blue cotton shirt—the fabric threadbare and clearly well-loved—and inhale deeply. It's heavy with her sweet, earthy scent. I grip the shirt as my eyes land on a decidedly small pair of black underwear laying on top of the pile. Alice's words come back to me—_Edward? Don't get greedy—just take the _shirt_, okay?_—and I pull my hand away, resisting the urge to pick up the little scrap of fabric as well.

I fly out of the house before I can reconsider and retreat to my shelter across the street, fingering the blue shirt as I inhale deeply.

This little exploration has given me a taste of Bella, and it's only made me hungry for more. It's going to be a long day waiting for her return.

* * *

Story recommendation: "Moonlit" by StormDragonfly - a lovely Bella/Carlisle story that took me completely by surprise. It's a wonderful slow burn that builds the relationship with thoughtful realism.


	5. Ch 4 All I Want

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own too many shoes and too few places to wear them.

Thank you to my readers. Love you guys.

Gigantic hugs to darcysmom and Marlena516! I'd like to buy you both a round.

Suggested listening:

"All I Want" by Violent Femmes

"Underneath the Sycamore" by Death Cab for Cutie

*Okay enough with the Death Cab! I know. This is the last one of theirs for a while. On that note, I saw them play this weekend, and they were out of this world.

* * *

**Bella**

My cereal tastes like cardboard, and the coffee does nothing to perk up my sour mood. I pick at the knots in the wooden table, struggling to choke down some breakfast. The sun is barely up, and I have hours until work starts, but I'm already dressed and ready to head out the door. It's much earlier than I normally rise, but nothing I've been doing this week can be considered normal.

_God, I'm such a freak._

Angela stirs in her room. I hope I haven't woken her; it isn't fair for her to suffer because I can't sleep. I wonder if I called out in my sleep again. She probably won't say anything if I did. She's stopped asking about the nightmares, stopped asking about much of anything—my silence on most subjects finally deterring her. My secrets are all so linked—what I've been dreaming, what I do with my days, what I'm thinking about _all the time_—and there's no part of those secrets I can share without looking insane or like a complete stalker.

I'm consumed with thoughts of _him_.

_Why? Why did he have to barge into my life?_

He was like a wrecking ball, sweeping into me and crashing down the whole of my foundation in one swift move. Then he was gone. He simply disappeared, the detritus of my broken life left in his wake.

Sometimes I think the nightmares are the worst. I'm following him down deserted rain-drenched streets for hours on end, his figure ever-elusive. He rounds corner after corner, just out of my grasp. My trembling legs work to keep up—struggling under my clumsy weight—until I fall into a crumpled heap, broken and calling his name. And then the day breaks much too early, and it's like I just repeat the dream. Only I'm not even afforded a glimpse of him—blindly searching, instead, for a person who seems more and more like a phantom with each passing day.

Angela emerges from her room, her hair swept into a loose ponytail, pajamas still on. I look up from my cereal and plaster a smile on my face, suddenly aware it must resemble a grimace.

"Coffee?"

She nods, and I stand, clearing my half-eaten bowl of mush and pulling out a mug for Angela. She sits down next to my vacated seat and murmurs, "Thanks," as I set a steaming cup down in front of her. The sleepy smile she sends my way doesn't reach her eyes.

_Ugh. I'm going to have to do something about this._

I miss her. I miss us. It used to be so easy, but now I can't look at her without feeling the weight of my secrets, the weight of my shame.

"So I'm gonna—"

"So are you—" we begin at the same time.

We chuckle nervously, and I say, "Go ahead."

She palms her mug, warming her hands. "I was just gonna ask if you're going for a walk this morning."

"Yeah. I think I'll head out." I stand there awkwardly, unmoving.

"Um, would you like some company?" she asks.

_Oh, Angela! Sweet, sweet Angela. She's still trying. _

My heart thanks her for not giving up on me; I hope I can deserve this devotion again soon. Instead, I disappoint her once more.

"Thanks, but I think I'd like to be alone."

Her face falls as she mutters, "Sure."

_Goddamn it! _

_Why am I wrecking the only friendship I have over some stupid, absent, beautiful, mystical, peeping-tom boy? Is it so important to figure out this mystery that I'm willing to sacrifice everything else—my time, my sleep, my friendship, my _sanity_?_

I walk out of the kitchen, realizing that as miserable as it's made me, I don't have a choice in the matter. I _have_ to find him. It's a magnetic pull, an undeniable imperative. I murmur the only truthful words I can think of to my friend, knowing they won't be enough.

"I'm sorry."

I don't hear a response as I pick up my bag and close the door behind me.

My feet pound down the stairs, and I throw the entry door open with a bang. I pull out my earbuds as I stomp down the steps to my front walk. My usual playlist is out. No more lyrical chanteuses; it's a Violent Femmes kind of day.

My blood speeds to the pounding music in my ears, and I'm glad that at least I can control this. I have so little control over the rest of this situation. At least I can filter this frustration into something tangible—into the cracked voice and angry beat that will be the soundtrack of my day.

I make a decision: I won't go out tonight.

This will be my last walk, the last time I feed this unhealthy obsession. After work I'll be waiting for Angela with a home-cooked meal and a girly movie. She wants to see _500 Days of Summer—_I'll surprise her with it. We'll sit and laugh and eat popcorn until we feel sick. And things will go back to normal.

_Yes,_ I tell myself, _everything will go back to normal._

The decision made, I feel a little better, even as a sinking feeling of loss prickles at me.

I turn right at the end of my walkway and make a quick circuit of the block. It's part of my routine. I don't know why I would have any luck finding him here, but these are the streets on which I first saw him, so they're my best bet. I exhaust the blocks close to home and decide to head to Porter Square. I haven't been there in a while, and chances are as good as any that I might run into him there.

The streets are still as I wander closer to Mass Ave. I feel a presence behind me and turn to look, but as usual, the block is deserted. A nagging thought teases at me, and I pull my earbuds out to test my theory. Not even a chirping bird disturbs the silence of the bright morning. I look around, examining the dark shadows under bushes, the high limbs of trees.

_Where are the animals? Stray cats, squirrels, birds—nothing._

This can't be normal. I wonder if my walks are always this silent, if today is unusual or if I've only just noticed it. I curse my stupid memory, struggling to recall seeing a single animal over the past week. I can't do it. But that doesn't mean anything. Just because I haven't noticed any signs of life doesn't mean they've been absent.

Maybe it's me. Maybe the wildlife can sense a strange, obsessed, stalker-girl when they see one and want nothing to do with her.

_Self-absorbed much?_

I laugh bitterly and move on. I'm getting closer to the commercial section of the neighborhood, and though none of the stores will be open this early, at least I can distract myself with some window shopping.

I turn north onto Mass Ave and note the traffic is a bit busier on the main thoroughfare—no surprise there—but pedestrian traffic is still light. None of the faces of the people I pass match the beautiful, pale face I'm looking for. My heart sinks as I realize my time is running out. If this is the final expedition I allow myself, these few hours are the last I have to really search for him. Sure, perhaps I'll run into him by chance without trying, but knowing I won't go looking for him again feels like closing a door. Like giving up.

I pass a bodega on my right, then the storefront of an artists' collective, and I attempt to shake away the morose thoughts.

_What does it really matter, in the grand scheme of things? So I let go of an obsession that's been chipping away at my sanity for the past week? I'll be better off._

_Then why does it feel like my heart is breaking?_

I walk a few more blocks, closing in on the Porter Square T station with each step. On my right is an eclectic little used clothing store, and I pause to examine a blue t-shirt adorned with a blobby Little Miss Trouble in the window. It reminds me of my favorite Little Miss Sunshine shirt that's recently gone missing. I'm pretty sure it was eaten by the community laundry in our building's basement, and I've been frustrated by the loss. I'm thrilled to find one so similar, and I decide to return to the store when it opens to try it on. I admire the shirt for another moment, hoping it will fit, then move past the shop and approach the corner of an intersecting alley.

I run into something hard—a brick wall where none had been a moment before—and I fall on my butt with an "Oof!"

I look up in confusion, searching for the sudden barrier, and my breath is sucked out of me as I meet two unforgettable eyes—topaz now, where once black. I stare into them, unable to look away. My heart races, and my fingertips tingle.

Then the edges of my vision blur, and I know nothing.

* * *

**Edward**

"Bella! Oh no, Bella! Bella, wake up!"

I can't stop saying her name. It's a life preserver tethering me to something solid, something real, while an ocean of fear and uncertainty threatens to pull me under.

I'm on my knees next to her as she lies unconscious on the hard concrete, both of us hidden under the shadow of the building towering over us. The burning in my throat is a nagging inconvenience easily ignored, much less pressing than the state of my darling Bella.

Her pulse is steady, her breathing shallow but regular, and I assume she's sustained no lasting damage, but I can't be sure. She smashed into me with such force; I have no idea what injuries she might have incurred. I'm afraid to touch her, afraid _not_ to touch her. I dare a gentle exploration of her head, lifting it carefully and examining with my fingers where she landed on the pavement. I feel a small lump but nothing worse than that. I sigh in relief.

Being this close to her sends a wave of calm warmth through me, bucking my courage.

My attention is so focused on Bella; at first I don't notice the curious thoughts of those around us. People are starting to take note of the girl lying on the ground. A couple across the street has paused, conferring as they watch us and deciding what to do. The man thinks they should investigate first, but the woman is quickly leaning toward calling an ambulance.

I hiss in response and call to Bella again, stroking her cheek.

We_ cannot _create a scene; I can't control the situation if others get involved. There's little chance I'll be able to stay at her side if an ambulance is called. The EMTs probably wouldn't allow it, but even if they were so inclined, I couldn't follow a path that would certainly lead me into the sun.

_I refuse to leave her. I will not be parted from Bella until I am certain she is safe. Unharmed._

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out quickly, hoping for some guidance from Alice. She doesn't let me down. The text reads:

_She's fine. Just passed out. _

_You can move her. There's a park _

_around the corner with lots of shade._

_Good luck!_

As gently as possible, I scoop Bella up and move down the shady back lane toward the park I passed on my way here. I listen to make sure no one is alarmed by my behavior, but the couple who've been watching seem satisfied the situation is under control. No one else pays us any mind.

I've never been so thankful for humanity's boundless apathy.

As we reach the park and I lay Bella down on the grass, I curse myself for my stupidity. All of this could have been avoided if I'd just been a little more careful.

I was so sure of myself, so certain what path she would take. Once Bella was on Mass Ave, I kept myself to the parallel side street and paced my steps to keep in time with her usual gait. I caught a wave of her scent on the narrow alley and assumed that she'd been past there and moved on.

I just wanted to see her. I just wanted a glimpse.

I crept up the alley and paused at the corner, anticipating seeing her retreating form further up the block. But she wasn't where I expected, and her scent was much too close. Then I registered a steady heartbeat, and as I turned, she slammed into me and fell to the ground.

It was so avoidable. I keep making stupid mistakes, but when it comes to Bella, I can't help myself. She makes me do insane things.

Like now. Waiting for her to wake—standing guard, when I'm probably the last person she'll want to see. I hope I haven't made everything worse by taking her away from where she fell. I hope she won't be too upset.

Bella looks peaceful lying here. Her face is always so full of tension. Even though the circumstances couldn't be worse, I can't deny it's nice to see her looking content.

Her breath quickens, and I sense her coming to.

* * *

**Bella**

It's dark and still. Quiet.

In the distance, I hear low, rumbling engines and a blaring car horn, but it's quiet and calm here—just the faintest sound of shuffling papers high above me.

My fingers reach down and tangle into long grass; the ground is soft and damp beneath me. I smell the earthy scent of well-tended gardens and something else—something sweet and clean, like ocean air, or mint. I inhale again, greedily.

_Where am I?_

I open my eyes, and all is white. After a moment, my eyes adjust, and the quivering canopy of ancient maples high above me comes into focus.

_Ah. Not paper—leaves._

A melodious voice says my name, and I turn toward it, choking on my breath.

Images flash across my vision: a shop window, a blue shirt, wide topaz eyes. Shaking the broken memories away, I struggle to process the scene before me. _He_ is kneeling in the grass, the flawless planes of his face etched in worry. So close, but infinitely far away, his alabaster hands reach toward me, placating.

"Bella, please, don't be frightened. I won't hurt you."

I hear them, but I can't make sense of the words. _Hurt me? Of course he won't hurt me._ I feel the truth of that more solidly than the ground beneath me.

"How—? Where—?" I sit up and instantly realize my mistake; the earth is wobbling nauseatingly.

"No, please don't try to sit up yet. Just rest a moment." I'm already on my back again.

"We're in Sacramento Field," he says. "It's not far from where you fell. I thought you might be more comfortable . . ." He mutters something too low and fast for me to hear, a quiet hissing meant only for himself.

I know any moment the world will come crashing down on me, but right now I'm enjoying his musical voice and sweet scent too much to care. I linger on the ground, feeling myself drawn into his warm amber eyes. A smile plays at my lips, and the worry on his brow shifts into curiosity. I float there under his gaze for hours, years—eternity.

In the end, it's the eyes that do it. Even as I feel myself transfixed by those beautiful, ancient eyes, a nagging truth pricks at me. They shouldn't be the color of caramel or African sand. _His_ eyes—I still can't bring myself to think his name—are black.

I fall, awash in grief and longing and relief and anger as the memories of the past week catch up to me, tumbling over me relentlessly. Every memory: my window, his sparkling skin, the fall, my nightmares, the endless hours searching for . . . Edward.

I bolt to my feet, ignoring the sickening rolling of my stomach. He's upright in an instant, a blur I barely register. He starts to speak, but I cut him off with a pointed finger to his chest.

"You!"

He retreats a few steps, shock and pain warring on his face. His lips part and close in a silent plea.

"You!"

I stalk forward, wanting to swing out, wanting to pummel him.

"_Where have you been?_"

Even as they roar out of me, I feel the colossal absurdity of my words. His face twists into a mask of confusion, and I feel the pressure of overpowering emotion ballooning inside. A nervous laugh bubbles up from my belly, overtaking my throat, and escaping my mouth as an insane giggle. My body shakes as the giggles morph into hysterics—laughter and choking sobs waging war with each other. In the end, the sobs win. I bend over and clutch my stomach, fighting for breath through rasping cries.

It's too much—finding him now, like this, after all this time searching and anticipating—I simply can't process it. I'm elated. I'm mortified. I'm furious. Tears stream down my face, and I slump to the ground, unable to bear the weight of my wildly careening emotions any longer.

He stands rooted to the earth as my shuddering cries slowly subside. I wipe at my face, brushing away tears, and stare at the emerald grass at his feet. Ever so slowly, my trembling breath calms.

_Wow. What a flipping nutbag I am._

When I'm sure it won't trigger the hysterics again, I dare a look into his eyes. He's so lost, like a little boy who only wants to hide behind his mother's skirt. His confusion—his vulnerability—gives me the courage to speak. At last, I utter the words that have been plaguing me since the first moment I laid eyes on him.

"What _are_ you?"

* * *

**Edward**

"_Where have you been?_"

Her voice echoes in my head as her earnest brown eyes eviscerate me. Then she shatters under a swirling carousel of emotion, and there's nothing I can do.

I can't bear the sight of her crying. Something rips at my long-dead heart as her sobs burst out of her—a physical tearing closer to pain than I've felt in ninety years. And all I can do is stand here impotently, too afraid to touch her, too afraid to gather her into my arms and whisper sweet words of comfort, as I so desperately want. How can I comfort her when I'm the cause of her distress?

I don't understand any of this—the hysterics, followed so closely on the heels of unbelievable fury. What does she mean, _Where have you been? _

I'm prepared for confusion. I'm prepared for disgust or anger. I'm certainly prepared for terror. I am absolutely not prepared for _longing_. I can't wrap my brain around it. Why do I read disappointment in her face, not fear?

As her cries finally fall silent and she dares a look at me with her lovely, earnest eyes, all I see there is a question. _The_ question—the one that will surely break us, shatter any hope I have of being in her life. It's floating around us, heavy and thick like smoke.

"What are you?"

She's waiting for an answer. Waiting for something I can't give. I've been preparing for this moment for the past week, but now that it's here, I can't bring myself to utter a single one of my carefully-crafted explanations. Instead, I dare to move closer to her, lowering myself down to the grass inches from her slight frame, knees nearly kissing knees. She shudders slightly but doesn't move away. I take this as a good sign. Her warmth radiates outward, enveloping me. It gives me a little strength to say what I must now.

"I'm sorry." It's a whisper—perhaps too quiet for human ears—but from the slight dilation of her pupils, I know she's heard me.

Her brows furrow in confusion. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"I know you're waiting for an answer, but before I give you the explanation you so rightfully deserve, I owe you a tremendous apology."

I want to look away from her probing eyes. I tell myself it's for her sake, to offer her some measure of privacy now, having failed so abominably before. But turning away will only assuage my own shame—a reprieve I do not deserve.

"At your window, I—" Her eyes fly open, and she shakes her head slightly, as though to stop me.

"No, please, let me continue. I acted reprehensibly. I never should have been there—I never should have invaded your privacy that way." She covers her face with her hands and groans, her heart fluttering wildly.

I continue. "I can't imagine how it made you feel. And it in no way excuses my behavior, but I want you to know my intentions in seeking you out were . . . chaste." _Murderous but chaste—how gallant I am._ "I beg your forgiveness."

She shakes her head violently and pleads with me to stop.

"Please, no more. Please!" Her hands still shield her face. "I can't talk about—just, you have to stop, okay?" With a loud exhale, a sweet cloud of her breath washes over me. She risks a peek through her fingers.

I tip my head in acquiescence. I'm done. I know I have no right to expect such a thing, but it does not escape my attention that she doesn't offer her forgiveness.

Silence descends, and I'm not sure where to go from here. Bella's hands drop from her face, and her eyes wander the park, avoiding my gaze.

We're in a large patch of green, bordered on all sides by tightly-fitted townhouses, condos, and single-family homes. Towering sycamore and maple trees flutter in the slight breeze, providing the shade I need for this conversation. Next to us, divided by a short picket fence, sits a large community garden. Raised beds and small trestles burst with tomatoes, strawberries, beans, herbs, and lettuces.

A squeal breaks the silence, and on the other end of the field, a young boy tackles another to the ground.

"No! Jimmy, no!"

"Give me the ball back, snot-face!"

A woman intervenes—their mother, I suppose—and the boys untangle as they rise.

The seconds tick on, and still Bella says nothing. I know that I've promised her information, but I still can't form the words she most wants to hear. She swallows thickly then worries her plump bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes darting to mine and quickly away. It suddenly dawns on me that I've neglected her physical needs entirely.

"How do you feel? You were out for quite a while there—you must be thirsty." Her teeth release the soft flesh of her lip, and I resist the urge to reach up and stroke it with the pad of my thumb. "We should get you something to eat. Your blood pressure is probably low."

She considers my offer.

"Are you just trying to get out of talking to me?" she demands.

I have to chuckle at her perceptiveness. As much as I'm concerned for her health, a part of me _is_ stalling. All of a sudden, Bella blanches, her face drained of color. Afraid she might lose consciousness again, I reach for her, my hands lightly circling her arms.

She's so fragile beneath my touch; it would take nothing to break her. But I want to be close. I need to be closer. I'm disoriented—threads of concern and desire and hunger rolling together into a tangled knot in my chest. I pick at the only important thread and focus on her safety.

"Are you all right? What's wrong?"

She sucks in a shaky breath and says, "No, I'm fine. I just . . . I've never seen you smile." A blush creeps from her neck to her cheeks, turning ivory skin to rose in an instant. "It took me by surprise, I guess."

I release her arms, my fingers tingling with the loss, and study her face.

_My _smile_ instigated that reaction? Did it scare her? Did she like it?_

_It's infuriating that I can't hear her thoughts! I would give anything to know what she's thinking. _

"But don't change the subject. If I agree to get something to eat, will you tell me more . . . about you?" Her determination is so endearing. Good lord, I'm going to get whiplash from the emotions this beautiful girl inspires in me.

"Yes, of course," I say. I look at the sharp blades of mid-morning light cutting through the trees, and I realize how limited my travel will be. I hastily improvise. "Would you do me the favor of waiting here for a few minutes?"

"What do you mean?" Her brows crease together.

"I thought you might like to rest while I get you a few things. It won't take long, I promise."

"I'm not an invalid. I can walk." She's irritated, suspicious. "Why don't we just go to the coffee shop on Oxford Street? It's not far."

I struggle to form the right words—the ones that will make it clear that we can't simply go for a stroll down the block. But how can I do so without bringing my true nature into such sharp relief? I can't scare her off now. I search through the protective shelter of trees to the neighborhood beyond. The sun is rising higher in the sky, and I calculate the chances of finding a route that doesn't lead through any patches of light. Slim.

Understanding dawns on her face.

"Oh. The sun. You can't—" She waves away her irritation. "That's fine. I'll wait here." If I weren't so afraid of what it might do to me, I would kiss her.

"But you better come back," she threatens.

A smile teases at my lips as I stand and nod. As I walk away, my promise plays on the breeze.

"Always."

* * *

Sorry for the cliffie, friends—no, I take that back. I have a few brutal cliff-hangers ahead, and I feel no shame for making you squirm for a few days. Just call me evil. If you haven't noticed, I've decided on posting twice a week, and a schedule of Mondays and Fridays seems to be working nicely. Hope you agree.

Story Recommendation: "Zombie Killer of the Week" by Lulu M - Blood and guts, humor and horror, romance and satire. This genre-bending story has everything my black heart could desire.


	6. Ch 5 Falling Slowly

**I'm reloading this chapter, guys, because I missed a key line break and it might have caused some confusion. Everything else is the same. Thanks for the reviews you have already written for this chapter - if they disappear, know that I read and cherished them.  
**

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own Jack's complete lack of surprise.

Thank you to darcysmom and Marlena516, my comma-wrangling queens, who remove 15 "justs" for every one you read and repeatedly correct my misspelling of "lightning" without batting an eye.

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. You all make me want to do the Snoopy Dance.

Story note:  
"Vera" reference from "Our Mrs. Reynolds" episode of _Firefly_

Suggested listening:  
"Falling Slowly" by The Swell Season  
"A Dangerous Mind" by Within Temptation

* * *

**Chapter 5 - Falling Slowly**

Falling slowly, eyes that know me  
And I can't go back  
Moods that take me and erase me  
And I'm painted black  
You have suffered enough  
And warred with yourself  
It's time that you won

"Falling Slowly" - The Swell Season

**Bella**

_Holy crow. Well, that was something_.

My eyes glaze over as I watch Edward glide across the field toward Oxford Street. I didn't know it was possible for his backside to approach the majesty of his front, but there it is, in all its denim-clad glory. I giggle stupidly. I feel drunk; the scrutiny of his gaze has turned my brain to mush.

_Pull it together, Swan—you need to focus._

Across the field, a shriek of laughter draws my attention to some kids playing keep-away with their mom, and suddenly I feel awkward sitting here on the grass alone. There's a bench a little ways away, so I gather myself up and walk over to it, glad to have something to anchor me. As I pick at the chipped red paint on the bench, I think about the stupid way I just sat there after his apology. My stomach tightens at the memory, and I briefly feel like I might lose my breakfast.

How could he talk about . . . _it_ so calmly? _La la la, sorry I checked you out while you were touching yourself—I didn't mean to._ Was he kidding?

And what the hell did that mean—his intentions were "chaste"? Why didn't I press him on how he got up there in the first place? Why didn't I ask about how he survived that fall? Or about his skin? Why had I let him control the entire conversation? I know I was embarrassed, but did I have to let him steamroll me?

Of course I did. I can't think straight when he's looking at me with those eyes. They're captivating—inhuman. Looking into his eyes is like falling into a beautiful, neverending abyss.

God! I'm going to have to find a way to get over his looks if I ever expect to get any answers from him, 'cause I could seriously spend hours drooling stupidly as I stare at his face.

I need a plan of action. I've been looking for him for a week, and now that I've found him I have to get some answers. My body goes cold as I suddenly realize that I _don't_ have him—not right now. Right now he's God knows where. Probably happy to have escaped the pathetic girl who passes out at the sight of him, throws crazy tantrums, and loses her shit when he smiles.

My hands start to shake and panic sets in.

_He's gone. He won't return. I've made a complete ass of myself, and now I've let him slip through my fingers. Again!_

_I am so stupid! Why did I let him walk away? I could have gone with him. I would have snuck through the shadows if that's what he needed. I would have crawled through rosebushes, climbed fences, wiggled around sun-lit obstacles if it only meant he'd be here now, by my side._

I search frantically for a hint of bronze hair or flash of pale skin, but there's nothing. Before I know what's happening, I'm up and running across the field to where I last saw him.

_Should I try to follow? Can I? What if I'm wrong and he does come back? What if I'm not here when he does?_

I can't do this again; I can't spend my life wandering the streets desperate for a glimpse of him. I think it might just drive me insane.

I'm at the edge of the field, wavering between running as fast as I can to try to catch him and staying rooted to the spot, waiting forever for him to return, when I hear a soft voice behind me.

"Bella?"

I squeal in surprise and whirl around.

"Jesus!"

He looks amused, and I have to stop myself from smacking the stupid, crooked grin off his face. In his hands are a large paper bag and a single pink Gerber daisy. My anger abates as he holds up his offering.

"You came back."

I can't hide the surprise from my voice. A glimmer of hurt flashes in his eyes, but he smooths his expression quickly.

"Of course." He offers a hopeful smile, and I see not a confident young man, but a shy boy. "These are for you."

I take the bag and the flower and try to find the words to express my confusion about the latter. He saves me the trouble.

"My mother taught me never to come to a lady empty-handed." He motions toward the flower looking embarrassed, uncertain. "It reminded me of you."

I stutter out a garbled, "Thank you," and try to keep my heart from beating out of my chest. I can already feel the flush blossoming over my cheeks, and I know it's a lost cause. I'm putty in his hands.

"Would you like to sit down? I wasn't sure what you'd like, so I got a bit of everything."

He leads me over to a nearby bench, and we sit. The empty space between our legs tingles with promise, and I fight the urge to scoot closer to him, to feel his thigh against mine.

I examine the contents of the bag and can't help but chuckle. He wasn't kidding about getting a bit of everything. Inside are bottles of water, Gatorade, and orange juice. In addition to the drinks are a granola bar, a package of chocolate doughnuts, a bag of cashews, and two sandwiches: one turkey, one veggie and cheese. My grin is wide—mocking—as I look from my plunder to him.

"I think I might have panicked."

I explode, my laughter full and unrestrained. Edward's brows furrow in consternation, and he mutters, "It's not that funny."

I choke back another laugh and smile at him. It's unexpected, this suddenly-casual banter, and I marvel at how natural it feels to be with him. As though all the tension of our previous encounters has drained out, and we're simply left with . . . us.

I like the sound of that. _Us_.

I twist the cap off the water and take a large gulp, suddenly aware of how thirsty I am. After the bottle is nearly drained, I open the granola bar and take a bite. The crunching in my ears is incredibly loud, and I wish I'd chosen the sandwich instead. Motioning to the pile of food, I ask if he'd like anything.

"No, thank you." He looks nervous again, and I realize our pleasant little bubble is about to burst.

"So . . ." The word hangs in the air. Gathering my courage, I plunge ahead. "What can you tell me? I mean, I know there's _something_. You're different. Special."

He looks pained. "Oh, Bella, I'm not special. I'm . . . wrong. I'm all wrong."

His shoulders sag, like there's a great weight pressing down on him, and I want nothing more than to lift that weight off him, to wipe that pain from his face. I reach my hand out and place it carefully on his knee. It's hard and cold—I can feel that even through the fabric of his pants—and it scares me to think how different he is. But the fear is eclipsed by wonder, and as I smile encouragingly at him, I see a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"You're not 'wrong'. You're amazing." He starts to protest, but I stop him. "You can do things . . . I saw you fall. I saw your skin—" I want to know everything, but I don't know how to ask.

"Please," I beg, "please, tell me. What are you? An angel? An alien? _What_? I have to know."

He groans and stands abruptly. My hand feels empty, bereft.

"Bella, you have it all wrong—I'm not an angel." He paces in front of me, his hands ripping into his hair. "I'm a monster. I'm dangerous. I'm not good, Bella. I'm not good for you."

I stand in his path and put my hands on his shoulders, stilling him. "I don't see that. You're kind and considerate and a gentleman. You can't be a monster."

He breaks away from me, and disgust colors his voice. "If you knew what I was thinking when I first met you. If you knew what I could have done to you—" His gaze falls to the ground, and I strain to hear his words.

"I could have killed you. So easily." Suddenly, his eyes snap to mine—dark now, menacing. "I wanted to. I wanted to end you. Part of me still wants to end you."

My breath comes in shallow little pants as I meet his hostile expression. He's challenging me to look away—to _run_ away—but I can't. My legs feel weighed down, my arms heavy. I'm terrified, but I can't move, can't turn away from him. I'm under his spell, and there's nothing that can make me leave. An insane thought pops into my head, and I know I'm lost.

_I would let him kill me, if he wanted. I could give up my life, if it would bring this beautiful creature joy._

"Okay." I meet his fierce gaze with one of my own. I know I'm gambling now. Stupid. But I can't help myself.

"Okay, what?" he sneers.

"Okay, kill me if you want." He steps back from me, his face a mask of confusion and anger. Pitch-black anger.

"What? Are you _insane_? What's _wrong_ with you?"

I can't stop my body from shaking as I take a step toward him. "See? You don't want to kill me. You won't hurt me."

"Please, Bella, stop. You don't understand. You're making this so hard."

His face is tortured, his body crumpled in on itself. I hate hurting him, but I have to understand. He's trying to convince me he's bad, but everything in me is telling me that's wrong. Everything in me says he's the most right thing in the world.

"Then make it easy. Make me understand. Tell me what you are."

He retreats, and I take another step forward.

"I'm evil, Bella. I'm not good, I'm . . ."

"What?" I press.

"I'm damned . . ."

He looks so fragile, like the slightest touch would turn his skin to crumbling ash—a cascading pile of dust.

I step closer, but he doesn't retreat. Slowly—so slowly I can hear my heartbeat _thump-thump-thump_ a dozen times—I reach my hand toward his face and brush the pads of my fingers against his cheek. It feels like silk, cool and smooth. His eyes are pools of amber. Liquid. Aching.

"What are you?" I breathe.

Finally, he shatters. When the words come, they're a broken whisper.

"I'm a vampire."

For a moment there is nothing but his beautiful eyes, ivory skin, and crazy riot of bronze hair, then my knees give out and I'm falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

But I don't land.

Somewhere, my brain registers I'm being carried, but it's a flicker of a thought lost inside the white noise in my head. I stay here, floating amid the shadowy blur of nothingness for a long time. It's nice here, soft and easy. There's nothing sharp here in my head. Nothing scary. Everything makes sense in the gentle hush of my mind. On and on, like an ocean wave, I feel a numbing vibration expand and contract, buffering me. Shielding me.

After an eternity, the soft wall starts to tear. I hear a voice—muffled, as though I've got cotton in my ears. It gets louder, clearer.

"Bella!" The voice is insistent. It's calling my name. "Bella! Please, come back to me."

The pleasant cocoon is falling away—the rips in the fabric are huge now—and the world starts to sharpen again. The voice is shouting; it feels too loud, too real. Someone is shaking me gently. As my protective shelter falls apart, I see two shining disks, bright coins flashing at me as they come into focus.

In a rush I'm back. I'm in the park, sitting on the bench. I don't know how I got here.

Edward's golden eyes are watching me in terror. He's kneeling in front of me on the grass, his hands on my shoulders. They feel solid and comforting, like being cradled in granite. _How is it possible that feels good?_ But it does. And I remember what he said. I remember why his hands are so hard, why his skin is so cold, why his eyes are so alien.

"Oh."

"Bella, are you okay?" He's panicked—completely undone.

"Yes, Edward, I'm okay," I say numbly. "Just taking a leave of absence." I suppress the urge to giggle.

"What? Where did you go?"

His hands rub absently over my arms, and I shiver. He takes them away and sits back on his heels, putting space between us. I regret the loss, but I can't seem to make my mouth work.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you that. I just—" He stands and starts to back away. "I'll leave you alone. You won't see me again."

Something inside me snaps, and I jump up, grabbing his hand.

"No! You can't! Please, don't leave!"

He looks down at our entwined fingers, then up at my face. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. His face is beautiful, even as flashes of fear, confusion, and hope play across his brow. I want to reach up and smooth the discordant lines there.

"Please, I'm okay. I just needed a minute. Don't go." I'm pleading now. I know I sound pathetic, but I can't help it.

His eyes are sad but resigned as he leads me back to the bench.

"All right."

Edward continues holding my hand as we sit, and for a long while I just stare at the verdant sea of grass in front of me. Trees flutter softly in the warm breeze, and my eyes are drawn to their shadows flickering on the ground, dancing like happy children at play.

I keep expecting something to happen—something huge. Shouldn't the earth be cracking at the seams? Shouldn't I be tumbling as it tilts and capsizes? But the ground is firm beneath me, and the sky is still above. My world has shifted, but the rest of the planet seems content to carry on as though nothing has changed.

_Is this real?_

_Is Edward real?_

_Am I?_

Edward is holding my hand like it's a fragile little bird—brushing his thumb reverently against my fingers, my palm, and my wrist. His touch grounds me, helps convince me I haven't imagined all of this.

_Vampire._ What a word. It circles around my mind, trying to take hold.

_Vam-pye-er._

It feels scary and strange and exciting as it lingers in my mouth—unspoken.

"Are you sure?"

The words come unbidden from me, and I cringe. What a ridiculous question.

"Sure?" Edward prods, but I say nothing. My face is burning, and I can't find my voice. "That I'm a vampire?"

I keep my eyes trained on the ground and nod my head.

He chuckles ruefully and says, "Yes, Bella, I'm certain."

We're both quiet for a while.

At last he says, "Are you okay?"

I squeeze his hand, looking up into his otherworldly eyes, and realize I've never been more okay. I feel so right it almost hurts.

"Yeah, I'm okay," I say as he shines his gaze down on me and my heart soars.

I'll be just fine as long as he's by my side.

* * *

"Bella? Bella?"

I hear an annoying squealing noise, and a burnt smell assaults my nose, like the time I found Renee's secret stash of cigarettes as a little girl and used her lighter to melt my crayons. It created a wonderful effect—a mosaic of color flowing in twisted rivers across green construction paper and onto the shag carpet below. Renee wasn't too happy with me, as I recall.

"Bella!"

A voice breaks through the high-pitched squeal, and I look up into Angela's incredulous eyes.

"What?"

Her face resembles a strange, gaping fish as her hands flail at me. Finally, she chokes out, "The milk! You're burning the milk!"

I look down and curse, twisting the steam wand off and examining the ruined container of milk. Sickly-sour steam snakes upward as I pour the scalded liquid down my dump sink and rinse the metal jug. The bottom is coated in a thick, gooey layer of white—it'll have to be scrubbed.

"Sorry, guess I just lost track of what I was doing."

I offer her a contrite glance and pull out a fresh container to start steaming. Angela peeks over her shoulder to where Spencer is helping a customer with a pound of loose beans. Conspiratorially, she asks, "Are you okay? It's like you were in another world there."

"Yeah, I just—I was distracted." I sense her probing gaze and keep my eyes averted.

_She knows. She can read it all over my face. _

I can't stop thinking about the park—about Edward. I feel the ghost of his touch, picture him leading me to the bench and easing me down. I remember the charge in the air as we talked. My legs tremble with the memory, and I shake my head to clear it, desperate to focus on the task at hand.

I haven't been able to focus all afternoon, and the evidence of my distraction surrounds me. Spilled espresso grounds litter the floor at my feet, the trash can overflows with drinks I've botched and discarded, and a line of empty cups waiting to be filled winds across my bar. I've been studiously avoiding the impatient glares of customers waiting for their drinks, but their muttered grumbles are harder to block out.

It's ridiculous—I've never been this far into the weeds. But how can I be expected to work after the morning I've had? How can I be expected function in even the most basic way after finding out what I have about Edward? I should be applauded just for standing and breathing at this point.

Even as his revelation inspired fear and confusion, I was still certain—down to my last cell—that he would not hurt me. We sat there on the bench—_that beautiful bench; God, I'm going to have to get it bronzed or something_—for a long time. Or maybe none at all. Time was fuzzy when I was with him. I could have sat there through nightfall, enjoying the feel of his fingers in mine and his clean, crisp smell washing over me.

It was Edward who reminded me I had to get to work, and at the time it didn't even register that there was no way he could know that. I just jumped up in panic and tried to figure out how I could possibly walk away from him. How I could wander back into the real world and out of that magical little bubble? I couldn't leave without extracting his phone number and a promise to see him again.

I smile, thinking about his expression when I asked for his number. You would've thought I'd asked him to put on a tutu and recite Shakespeare. _Do vampires not give out their digits?_ I guess I have a lot to learn about him.

I feel a tug on my arm and realize Angela has been talking again, and I have no idea what she said.

"I'm sorry, what?"

She huffs in exasperation. "I said, 'Did something happen this morning?' You've been completely off since you walked in here."

I stall for a moment, filling a cup with (un-scalded) milk and setting it on the counter to my left. My eyes catch the flash of pink on the counter, a daisy in a paper cup, and I realize I'm losing focus again.

_Angela. You have to talk to Angela._

I've been wondering how to say this—I know I have to tell her at least a little of what happened. But there's so much I can't say—Edward made that very clear—and I feel like I'm walking a tightrope. I decide to keep as close to the truth as I can without revealing what I can't.

"Yeah, actually. I ran into your friend, Edward."

"Edward?" She scrolls through her mental Rolodex before understanding finally shines in her eyes.

"You ran into _Edward_? Edward _Cullen_?" She's trying to keep her expression neutral, but she can't hide her surprise and curiosity.

"Literally. I plowed into him and fell on my ass," I laugh. I'm going to have to edit this story anyway; no need to mention me passing out. "We went to a park nearby. Chatted for a while."

_Casual, just sound casual. Nothing big here—no world-shaking revelations or life-altering discoveries._

"Oh."

I can see the gears turning in her head, and suddenly something clicks into place.

"_Oh_."

Angela is a clever girl. I know it probably hasn't escaped her attention that I've been acting either crazy or like a complete recluse since that day we first ran into Edward in the rain. If she didn't suspect my behavior was related to him before, she does now. But Angela proves once again why she's become my closest friend. She doesn't dive in with a barrage of questions, as most people would, just smiles thoughtfully at me.

A short, balding man walks up to the counter, and Angela tells him she'll be with him in a minute. She grabs a few plastic cups in my ever-growing line and fills them with ice and tea, offering whatever help she can to get me out of the mountainous pile of drinks.

"So, you like him, huh?" she whispers as she pumps some chocolate into another cup and sets it on the bar. I tamp down a handle of espresso and twist it into the machine.

A smile creeps up my face, and I know that's all the answer she needs. I wish we were alone in our apartment curled up on the couch, drinking wine. I'm not much of a drinker, but this conversation definitely calls for alcohol. Even with all that I can't say about him, I want to gush, I want to giggle with my friend.

I set another drink down and call out, "Large mocha!"

Across the counter, Kojak is tapping his foot, and I can almost hear his teeth grind together. We're going to have to finish this another time. Angela turns to him with a plastered-on smile, and for now the conversation is closed.

I remember my plan for a girly night—_Jeez, was it only this morning I vowed to make amends to her?_ It feels like weeks ago. I'll be getting off work before her. That'll give me time to rent a movie and make dinner before she gets home. I'm excited about having a movie night, but for some reason I'm more in the mood for Kate Beckinsale in black leather than Zooey Deschanel in a flowery fifties skirt.

The rest of the afternoon passes quickly. I never completely pull myself together, but at least I manage to keep the daydreaming to a minimum. Angela and Spencer are cleaning out the pastry case and sharing a murmured conversation as I finish wiping down the espresso machine. Outside, night has fallen. Street lights blot out the stars, but behind their ugly yellow glow, I imagine I can see twinkling points in the blue-black sky.

Spencer's voice rises in a mock-southern accent, and he holds his hand in the shape of a pistol.

"This here is my favorite gun—" he begins.

"I call her Vera," Angela finishes, and both break into cackling laughter.

_Huh. How have I missed that?_

Their budding relationship seems to have bloomed. I wonder if Angela has been sitting home alone all these evenings I've been absent—as I've imagined—or if she's found herself another way to keep occupied. Suddenly, I feel awful.

_What has she been going through? How much has she needed a friend this week—the friend I haven't been?_

In keeping my life a secret from her, I've completely missed something huge in hers.

"Hey, Angela?" My voice is quiet. I hate interrupting the intimacy of the moment, but I can't assume she's going to be free for the evening I've got in mind. They turn their heads in unison. "Do you have plans tonight? I was thinking of spaghetti and _Underworld _back at home."

She looks shocked by the request but recovers quickly.

"Oh. That sounds fun, but Spence and I were going to hit The Druid."

_Shit. Guess I'm on my own tonight._ An awkward silence hovers between us.

"Would you like to join us?" Her eyes are welcoming, warm. I know the invite is sincere, but there's no way I'm crashing their date.

"No thanks, sweetie. You guys have a good time." I tie up the ends of the garbage bag at my feet and turn to the sink to wash my hands. "I think I'll just throw on some pajamas and have a quiet night at home."

"You sure? It would be nice to . . . spend some time together."

"No, really, I'll be fine. Raincheck, okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

The two of them offer tight-lipped smiles, and I avoid their eyes as I duck into the back office to clock out and grab my bag.

_Let's just skip the Bella pity party, shall we?_

They'll be here for another hour closing down the shop, so I say my goodbyes and head out into the night.

As the door swings shut behind me, I'm hit by a wall of hot, thick air. It reminds me of Florida in the way it feels like a solid thing, heavy as I breathe it in. As I walk, I pull my hair up off my neck into a messy bun. I've made it halfway down the block when a smooth voice startles me.

"Bella?"

My heart bursts from my chest, and I whirl around to face Edward, his pale face glowing in the shadows.

"Oh my gosh, you scared me! You have to stop doing that!"

His head is tipped in penitence, and he looks up through long, dark lashes.

"Sorry."

My surprise evaporates, but I still can't process what I'm seeing. After our conversation this morning, I was half-sure he'd vanish again—like cigarette smoke into fog.

"Why—? What are you doing here?" I feel exposed under his gaze, and goosebumps scurry up my arms.

He takes a few hesitant steps forward. "I wanted to—" He stops himself, his frame drawing upward, straight and tall. "May I accompany you home? Just to see that you're safe?"

He wants to "accompany me home"_? _To _"_see that I'm safe"? I have a crazy vision of Edward dressed in Victorian finery, all ruffles and white gloves like some Jane Austen gentleman suitor, and I suppress a giggle.

"Is something funny?"

He looks so confused, my vampire swain. The whole thing is so ridiculous—this dark angel offering to keep me safe, the courtly way he holds himself, the fact that I am incomprehensibly an object of interest to him—that now I really do laugh. But pain rages in his eyes, and I hate that look. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm inches from him, brushing my fingertips along his furrowed brow, all laughter gone.

His body goes rigid—still as stone—and I pull my hand away, burned by the chill in his eyes.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't laughing at you."

He puts a fraction more distance between us, and I'm terrified I've messed everything up.

"I wouldn't have come, but it can be dangerous at night. I didn't like to think—"

My words tumble over his before he can withdraw his offer. "No, really, that's very thoughtful. I just wasn't expecting you. Please—" I motion toward my interrupted path, praying he won't turn and leave. "I'd love it if you walked me home."

He nods and falls in step next to me as I turn toward my apartment. The smell of crushed mint and honey wafts toward me, and I inhale deeply. It's intoxicating, his scent. It makes my head feel fuzzy.

"You smell good," I hear myself say before clapping a hand over my mouth. "Oh my gosh! I didn't mean that—I mean, yes, I did—but I didn't mean to say it out loud." A humiliated groan escapes me, and I dip my face to hide it. "Just kill me now, please."

He chuckles.

_What a lovely sound that is—even at my pride's expense._

"I prefer you breathing, actually."

I choke—a horrible rasping noise issuing from my throat—and look up into twinkling eyes. I guess I deserve a bit of teasing after laughing at his considerate offer to walk me home. I tamp down my humiliation and decide to play along with the gallows humor.

"I suppose I should be thankful for that, huh?"

I intend it to be funny, but my words only highlight this razor-edge of danger I'm balanced on, and the joke falls flat to my ears. Edward's mouth curls into a tilted crescent moon, and he leans in close, teasing the hairs at the nape of my neck with his winter breath.

"Absolutely—considering how delectable _you_ smell."

_Oh, wow._

A shiver slinks down my spine and settles at my toes, and I feel a quick tightening at the apex of my legs. My breath is shallow and fast, and the blood racing to my cheeks sings a twin song of desire and fear. I focus on moving one foot in front of the other, willing myself to continue a forward momentum.

_If I veer from this course, will I run screaming into the night or race into his arms? _

I don't know.

As we turn the corner onto Trowbridge Street, I realize how alone we are. Nothing disturbs the absolute quiet of the street, save the clumsy scrape of my footfalls next to his silent ones. His gait is graceful, raptorial. His face is smooth and gorgeous. I feel like a skittering raccoon next to a sleek panther, and I can't make sense of the disparity.

As if to prove my thoughts, his voice is silken and flawlessly clear as he says, "I didn't mean to scare you, Bella. It was a joke. Sorry, I'm a bit out of practice."

_How can he think of apologizing when all I want is to feel that cool breath on my neck again? I would accept terror a thousand times greater if only that luscious mouth would brush against my skin._

But I can't say that.

I simply say, "You didn't scare me," and it isn't exactly a lie.

We walk in silence until our feet reach my front porch. I hover at the door, keyring looped and spinning around my index finger. A handful of shiny, grey moths flurry around the golden porch light above us, and I feel moisture start to pool in the dark recesses under my clothes. Edward's alabaster skin looks cool and dry.

_Hmm. I guess vampires don't sweat._

I don't want to say goodnight. I don't want him to leave—ever. It's crazy, this pull I feel toward a virtual stranger—by all accounts, an incredibly dangerous stranger. Yet I feel like a raft at the precipice of a waterfall: I have no choice but to plunge ahead.

He shifts his weight and draws a hand through his unruly bronze hair, apparently—inconceivably—as unwilling as I to part ways.

"So," he begins at last, "I guess I should go."

"Do you want to come inside for a minute?" I ask before my courage fails me. "Just to talk?" As if clarifying that were necessary. As if I could do more than talk to a paradigm of beauty like him, or stop him if he wanted to do more than talk to me.

His lips turn up at the corners, but his eyes are wary. He considers my offer, then nods silently, following me up the stairs to my apartment.

* * *

Story Recommendation: "Wrapped in a Bow" by CyraBear - Steamy hot one-shot in which Edward finds an unexpected present unwrapped on his bed. B/E NC-17


	7. Ch 6 Eyes On Fire

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a heart full of gratitude.

Hey, darcysmom and Marlena516! Do you know how hard you rock? Me neither. But if I were one of the cool kids, I could tell you, and I know it would be pretty damn hard!

Suggested listening:  
"Eyes on Fire" by Blue Foundation  
"Mongrel Heart" by Broken Bells  
"Help, I'm alive" by Metric

* * *

**Chapter 6 - Eyes on Fire**

**Bella**

_There's a vampire in my apartment._

I'm in the kitchen going through the motions of making tea. I know it's crazy in this heat, but I crave the comfort of the ritual—it's familiar, like hearing Renee yell, "I'm home, Bella-Bear!" every single time she walked through the door. And it gives my hands something to do while I studiously try not to think about the vampire in the other room.

Fill the kettle with water and set it on the burner.

Pull two mugs down.

Put teabags into mugs.

Wait for the water to boil.

Realize I'm out of tasks and peek into the living room, where said vampire is standing still as a stone idol at my threshold, door open wide.

Wait, what?

_There's _almost_ a vampire in my apartment._

"Are you okay?"

He looks terrified, in pain. Faint tremors run along his stony pale skin, and whispers of suffering haunt his eyes. He's a million miles away, unseeing. I make to cross the room but he stops me mid-stride, the blurry arc of his arm shooting up in warning. Wordlessly, he asks me to wait.

He draws in a deep breath, and the hurt in his eyes deepens. I feel awful. I want to assuage that pain—draw it out of him—but I have a feeling I'm the cause of it, though I don't know how or why. The faint sound of Broken Bells' _October_ plays in the background; it's jarring against the otherworldly stillness of the moment, like a disjointed movie soundtrack. I'd turned the music on as I walked in, hoping to set a relaxed mood. Now I think silence would be better.

Edward hasn't moved, his hand still held up in warning as I stand awkwardly balanced mid-step. I wonder if I might topple over. Ever so slowly he exhales, and his eyes seem to prepare for some new torture as he draws in a second deep breath.

But instead of the grimace I anticipate, his mouth curves into a slight but victorious grin. He drops his hand and without looking reaches behind him to pull the door closed. I'm frozen, afraid to move, afraid anything I do will make that mask of pain return.

The faraway expression dissolves as his eyes focus on me, surgically examining every inch. He seems disappointed by what he sees. My heart sinks.

"I'm sorry, I keep scaring you. I can go if you like." I can tell he'll do it if I give the word, but he's reluctant. I wish he'd stop trying to leave me.

"No," I breathe, hoping the whisper carries to him. "Are you okay?"

"Yes. Now."

I move a step closer, test the waters. He doesn't retreat. _Good._

"Can you tell me what was going on there?"

Moments tick on, the air pregnant with silence. His eyes map the room, and suddenly my shabby-chic furniture just feels shabby. He's so out of place here—a shiny new Porsche parked in a broken-down used car lot. We're frozen in some ridiculous, awkward Mexican standoff, and I feel despair start to creep in.

_He doesn't belong here among my cheesy knickknacks, my stupid Ophelia poster, and my ugly brown couch._

My mouth opens to give him an out—an escape he so obviously deserves—when a high-pitched squeal issues from the kitchen, and I jump. And just like that, the spell is broken. He smiles hesitantly, and I realize I'm being rude.

"Would you like to sit?"

A relieved huff escapes him, and he moves to the sofa to his right as I run into the kitchen to pull the screaming kettle from the stove. I return to the living room with two mugs in hand and set them on the battered coffee table, lowering myself onto the far side of the couch.

He looks at the tea warily, like I've put a steaming cup of mud in front of him, and I suspect I've made a blunder.

"You don't drink—?" He fills in the rest of my fragmented thought and shakes his head no.

"Or eat?" Another shake.

"So just—" A nod.

"Oh."

We're silent for a moment while I process that information. All I can think is how sad it is he'll never get to try my chicken enchiladas. Then I smile at my own absurdity.

He eyes me curiously, letting out a frustrated little sigh, and I raise my eyebrows in question.

"I just don't know how to read you. I tell you I only drink blood, and you _smile_—it's completely ridiculous. You never react how I think you will."

I'm not sure what to say to that, so I turn the spotlight on him. "You know, I'm not the only one who's difficult to read." I toss a pointed look at the door to let him know I haven't forgotten my previous question.

When he speaks, his voice is slow and measured as he picks through his words.

"I'm sorry, I'm not trying to be evasive. I want to tell you. I want you to know everything. But I'm afraid when you find out the truth, you'll never want to see me again."

It amuses me to think he could say anything more startling or terrifying than, "I'm a vampire". What more could there possibly be? I offer what I hope is an open, reassuring smile.

"I haven't run away yet."

He looks both puzzled and amused as he says, "No, you haven't."

"So, at the door? What was that about? You looked like you were in pain." He says he wants to answer my questions, but he seems to need a little push.

"I was expecting pain more than I really felt it. I was scared that it would be too much for me."

"What would?"

"Your scent."

_Wow. Way to make a girl feel gross._

I shift away from him, but my back is already pressed into the armrest; there's nowhere left to go. I wonder if it would be rude of me to slip away for a quick shower. He's right: I really don't like what he's saying. Still, I can't imagine telling him to walk away from me—even if I smell so horrible it brings him pain.

"Is it really that bad?" I grimace, waiting for the inevitable confirmation. Waiting for him to realize he doesn't belong here, doesn't belong in my sweaty little pedestrian world.

"On the contrary. It's really that good."

_What?_

He sees the surprise on my face and continues. "You smell like nothing I've ever imagined. Your scent is overpowering." He breathes in deeply to prove his point, and a smile plays on his lips.

"Heavenly. Exquisite." His eyes devour me as he finishes his description. "Ambrosia."

And I remember his words from our walk home, the shudder that passed through me as he whispered into my ear that I smelled "delectable".

_Oh._

"You mean . . . good enough to eat?"

He smiles ruefully and nods. A wild lock of hair falls over his brow, and I have the urge to brush it away, to run my fingers through it.

"But you don't want to . . . taste . . . me."

"I'm fighting it with every cell in my body."

"I see."

I reach for my mug, hoping to warm the chill that has suddenly overtaken my body. But Edward is on a roll. The floodgates are open, and his words flow.

"I'm not like others of my kind. I don't . . . eat the usual diet."

He levels his gaze at me, and his meaning is clear. I wonder what he does eat, if not people?

"But you—when I smelled you outside the coffee shop, I couldn't stop myself. You smelled so amazing. I want to say I fought it, but I didn't. I followed you. I wanted you more than I have _ever_ wanted _anyone_."

"You followed me?" He nods, abashed.

I know he's talking about my blood. I know I should be horrified—scared beyond thinking—but the desire in his voice is intoxicating. It may be desire for my blood he's describing, but my body doesn't care. It aches for him.

Suddenly, what he's said clicks into place.

"You mean, when Angela and I ran into you, you were there because of _me_?"

He nods, curiosity coloring his face. I groan, thinking of the hours I'd spent searching those streets for him. He had no reason to be there at all! All that wasted effort. I might as well have stayed at Black Ground and waited for him to pass by there again.

He's looking at me like he wants me to explain, but it's so embarrassing—I can't tell him anything about how I spent the past week. So I distract him with another question.

"What changed your mind about . . . pursuing me?" I'm still alive; I assume there's a reason.

"I remembered who I was. Who I want to be."

Silently, I encourage him to continue.

"Angela was a good distraction. And your face, your eyes. I couldn't bear to hurt anything so perfect."

My breath whooshes out, and I look down, shaking my head. His words don't make sense. How can anyone so beautiful, so god-like, say these things about _me_? It feels like some cruel prank. I keep waiting for the big reveal, the moment he says he's just been toying with me. _There's nothing special about you. This is just how I get my vampire kicks_.

I dare a glance in his direction, and his eyes are so open, his thoughts so bare, I can almost believe it's all true.

"So, when you first came in, you were worried . . ."

"That I wouldn't be able to control myself. Yes."

"But you're okay?"

"It takes some effort, but yes, I'm okay."

There's a question plaguing me, the question I've been pushing away, trying to bury deep, deep down in an effort to maintain some self-preservation. But here he is, answering everything, and I don't know how long that can go on. If this is my only chance, I have to ask.

My stomach clenches in anticipation, but I forge ahead. I try to imagine a clinical setting. _Just taking a survey, getting it all down for posterity_.

"Later that day . . . when you were at my window . . ." His eyes flash in panic, but the expression smooths instantly. "Why were you—?" But I can't finish. I'm a coward. Still, he seems to understand what I'm asking, and I'm so thankful I don't have to say the words.

"After meeting you and Angela on the sidewalk, I fled. I didn't want to hurt you, and I needed to get away. I was in my apartment thinking about what I'd almost done, forming a plan. Perhaps I'd go back to Alaska, remove the . . . temptation."

I start to panic, thinking how close I was to losing him forever. As though reading my thoughts, his hands grip his thighs, fingers straining.

"But the thought was abhorrent to me. It was torture, thinking of being away from you."

I blush at the intensity of his words, and my belly fills with warmth. My breath is shallow, thin as tissue paper, and I plead with whatever gods might be listening to please let this be real.

_Don't let this be a joke._

"I didn't understand why, but I had to see you again, so I followed your scent. I just wanted to make sure you were here, make sure I knew how to find you when I was finally ready to approach you." He pauses, and my shoulders draw upward, bracing myself for his words.

"I didn't know what I was hearing until it was too late. I was already at your window."

This is it, the moment I've dreaded, and I need him to stop. I've heard enough—I don't want to hear any more. My shallow breath speeds, and I feel lightheaded.

_Is this what it's like to hyperventilate? How embarrassing—I'm always losing it around him. Stupid human hormones._

Quicker than lightning, he's at my side removing the untouched mug from my fingers and cradling my hands in his. He lifts my chin, drawing my gaze upward, and my heart bangs against my ribcage.

_Stop! Please, stop, _I silently plead._ Don't say anything else. You could break me so easily._

When he speaks—as I know he will—his voice is rough, determined.

"You have _nothing_ to be ashamed of."

Tears flood my eyes, blurring his exquisite face, and I curse them for it. His breath washes over me, cool silk caressing my skin.

"I hate that I've caused you pain—I had no right to be there. But I can't bring myself to wish it didn't happen. In all of my many years on earth, it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen."

My mind is a wasteland, an empty barren desert. A blinding mushroom cloud has wiped the space clean—thoughts, feelings, basic functions . . . all razed and turned to ash from nuclear fallout. The shell of me, the Bella-shaped thing sitting here, taking up space, leans in slowly to the angel in front of it. It doesn't think, it just moves. It presses lips to exquisite lips, and all is right with the world.

The wasteland blossoms—green, floral paradise sprouting lush and full.

* * *

**Edward**

I see it happening well before it does. My brain is a computer running a hundred times faster than the average human's. Of course I see it coming. I can chart the freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks—my own personal constellations—in the time it takes her glazed eyes to close. I can count the thousand specks of dust in the air between us as her lips make their slow approach toward mine. I have time enough to stop it, time enough to be out the door and down the street before she knows I'm gone.

But I don't stop it.

I let her lean in. I am selfish, and I am wrong, and _I know this_ as I let her sweet lips touch mine, consequences be damned. Because I _want_ it. I want her lips. I want her skin. I want the feel of her perfect little frame in my arms. I want it all.

And there's the crux of the problem. Because I don't _just_ want to kiss her. I want to consume her. Before I've even come close to having my fill of her, the monster roars—clawing its way to the surface—and it takes every ounce of strength to beat him back, to pull myself away. It's a Herculean task, increasing the space between us by millimeters, separating enough so that her soft, warm flesh is once again her own, not some beautiful extension of mine.

Like the slow arc of a sunflower turning toward the light, her eyes open, lost and faraway. A smile plays at her lips, and the flush covering her cheeks travels a loving path across every visible inch of skin. I feel the monster retreat—whipped and broken—back into his cage, and I smile in satisfaction.

_I've done it._

For a few perfect moments I was closer to her than I imagined possible—if not nearly as close as I would like.

I feel a warmth swelling in my chest as I examine her dreamy visage. Slowly, light begins to shine in her eyes; pupils contract, consciousness returns. I grin stupidly as her eyes widen and her mouth opens in surprise. She's off the couch in an instant, retreating to the other side of the room.

"I don't know what—" she begins. She's looking anywhere but me. "I'm so sorry—I don't know what I was thinking."

_I don't understand her panic—what's wrong?_

"Please don't apologize for that. As you can see, I'm not complaining."

She rolls her hands into fists and raises them to cover her mouth as she tentatively turns toward me. She looks like some scared woodland creature, little paws and huge brown eyes, and I can feel the anxiety rolling off her. I try to reassure her, smiling openly, but there's a wall of doubt separating us.

_How did this happen? How did we go from perfection to disaster in seconds?_

I stand and take a slow step toward her. "Please, Bella, tell me what you're thinking. Tell me how to fix this."

She lowers her hands, crossing her arms over her chest protectively, and tears well in her eyes. It's breaking me, seeing her like this.

"I don't understand. I don't understand how you can say those things about _me_. I'm not that girl. I'm not beautiful . . . or tempting. How could I be anything to _you_? I keep thinking you've made a horrible mistake . . ." Her eyes drop to the ground as she finishes, ". . . or that this is some kind of cruel joke."

Her voice catches on the last word, and I am filled with fury. How can she believe herself unworthy of _me_? I want to find the person responsible for tearing this girl down—for teaching her this blasphemy—and I want to rip out their spine.

I tamp down the anger shuddering through me as I close the distance between us. My arms circle her, pulling her close enough to kiss the crown of her head before backing away to meet her gaze.

"Please, Bella," I murmur, "can't you see? Can't you see that I'm telling you the truth? Can't you see that I would _never_ hurt you like that?"

She looks up at me, the faintest hope teasing at her eyes. "Do you promise?"

I would make a thousand promises if I only thought she would believe them. But I'd rather show her the truth. I rather she feel it.

This time, when our lips meet, she knows it's happening. She's not lost in some faraway recess of her mind, not hiding from me, not hiding from herself. This time, she feels my arms pull her tight, sees the adoration in my eyes, feels the crush of my mouth against hers. This time, I let my desire flow from me, sharing the flame she has ignited, stoking it with long-dormant passions of my own.

I don't spare a fraction of a thought for the monster—he's safely locked away, chained up tight. He has no place here.

Our mouths dance, now soft and tender, now eager and needy. She parts her lips in invitation, and I can't help but groan as I taste her; she's sweet like molasses, spicy like cloves. It's exquisite, the soft warmth of her mouth, and I wonder if might spend eternity here, caught in her embrace—both wanting and wanted. I carefully pull my arms tighter around her and feel her hands slink up my sides, roam across my chest, and tangle into my hair. She tugs roughly on my locks, shooting sparks of desire from the tip of my head to the bottom of my toes.

It feels like some new beast has been let loose—not the monster that wants her blood, but another. A fearsome creature that craves her body.

Without thought, my hands trail south, exploring the soft curves of her bottom and pulling up, lifting her lithe body and wrapping her legs around my middle. In half a heartbeat I have her on the couch, her back pressed into cushions, my body hovering over hers. She sucks in a surprised breath, then giggles, and I smile against her mouth. I can feel the heat between her legs, smell her earthy-sweet arousal, and I press against her with my own need. A low growl rumbles in my throat.

_More! I need more! _snarls the beast, and I'm happy to oblige.

My hands are everywhere—in her hair, on her waist, pressed against her hips. I wish our clothes were gone and think idly of how little effort it would take to make them disappear. The small part of me that hasn't been taken over by this new animal registers it would be a mistake to take that barrier away.

I grunt my frustration, and placate the beast by pulling Bella's legs tight around me. I push my hips against her as the flame of my need threatens to consume me. Her desire perfumes the air—stronger now than the scent of her blood—and her high, keening moans are a delicious symphony.

_I do that to her. I make her feel that way. _

The beast howls in triumph.

I listen to her body, match the rhythm she sets against me as her legs squeeze me tight and her hips push up to meet mine. Still our mouths and hands move together in furious, untamed exploration. I thrust hard against her again and again.

I'm burning with her touch—a wildfire flaring in my chest and stealing up and out and all around, consuming me. We move together, pushing and pulling, grasping and yielding, until I'm sure I can't take anymore. Then her head is thrown back as pain and pleasure tangle together on her face. A cry flies from her mouth, and her whole body shudders its release. I help her ride it out, feeling the embers of my own need flare in anticipation.

It's perfection—her face, her body—the soft loosening of her muscles into dreamy contentment.

Still, I am not sated. _I need more! _

I trail kisses down her throat, drawn to the skin above her pulsing vein. The furious pounding of her heart is winding down, and I feel the beat slow against my lips. I lick and suck and breathe in her amazing scent. Her skin is a cornucopia of flavor, salty and sweet and smoky—a delicious prelude.

_More!_

I want to sink my teeth in, drink her down. I want to feel the warm liquid flowing down my throat, taste that heavenly essence. My lips curl back. I feel the lazy pulse of her blood against my tongue, open my jaw wide, and I—

_STOP!_

I fly across the room, crashing into plaster, white dust floating around me.

For a moment everything is still.

Half a breath, a blink of time.

Then Bella is searching for me, the speed of her glassy gaze far slower than my escape. Finally, she meets my eyes, confusion reigning.

I say nothing. There are no words for the horror I feel.

"Edward?"

I am the worst kind of villain. Somehow, for a moment, I was able to convince myself I was the hero of this story. But I'm not Bella's shining prince; I'm Death's errand-boy.

I pull myself from the wall—white cloud trailing like a phantom—and open the door. I wish this image of her wasn't my last—the confusion and hurt in her eyes, the startling realization of what I'm about to do, the pain. But I'll take it. I'll drink in every last drop of my precious Bella.

As I turn to leave, it's her whisper, broken and sad, that stops me.

"Wait."

I'm rooted, half-in, half-out, still as stone, frozen at the threshold in some strange echo of my entrance to this space only an hour ago.

"Please, wait. Just . . . tell me what I did wrong."

_What has she done wrong?_

_What has _she_ done wrong?_

I am tumbling down a rabbit-hole of despair because these words—_these words_—are base profanity, a black, stinking lie; and they cannot go uncorrected. Just like that, I'm turning, my resolve as fragile as a butterfly's gossamer wings. I should have known I wouldn't leave.

_What kind of villain would I be if I could just walk away? _

I'm on my knees, supplicating before her in a blink. She's huddled on the couch, trembling limbs and lost eyes, and I hate myself for what I've done, how I've made her feel.

"No, Bella, no. You didn't do anything wrong. It's me. I can't—" I force the words out, knowing as I speak what a feeble attempt I've made. How utterly weak I am. Knowing I should leave, but I won't.

"I can't be trusted with you. You don't know what I almost did. How close I came—" Her hand reaches out to stroke my cheek—maiden comforting the dragon—and I break.

I bury my face in her lap and sob; tearless, rasping cries breaking forth. I don't deserve this heavenly creature, but I can't tear myself away.

She hushes and coos, maternal hands combing softly through my hair. And I let her comfort me, because what else can I do if I'm not strong enough to walk away? My arms cradle her hips, and though the scent of her frenzied passion is still heavy in the air, none of that flame remains in me. It is tamped down, cooled with the memory of near-disaster. I simply feel her hands as they run across my scalp and rub soothing circles down my neck and over my shoulders.

Bella's touch puts me in a trance, and everything but her slow breath and steady heartbeat fades away.

Time loses all meaning. I just let myself feel. It's heaven.

Eventually, though, reality returns—as it must—in this case with a low rumble from Bella's stomach. She freezes, sucking in a breath, and I raise my head with a rueful grin.

"Sorry. Guess I need a human moment."

"Please don't apologize. Let's get you something to eat."

I push back on my heels and stand, extending a hand to help Bella from the couch. We make our way into the kitchen, fingers still entwined. That simple act, that casual intimacy, fills me with more hope than I've felt in a hundred years. I feel like I could burst into a thousand points of shimmering light. I don't know how, but I _will_ make this work.

There is simply no alternative.

* * *

**Bella**

"Can I ask you something?"

I'm picking at the remains of my dinner, my stomach full. _If I stand up and clear my plate, will that be the end of our evening? Will he leave?_ I can't let that happen, so I draw the meal out, pushing cold pasta around pointlessly.

I know this is stupid. There's no way it can possibly end well. He will destroy me—one way or another. But I can't help myself. I won't let him go.

"Of course," he answers.

I run a hand along my sweaty neck, wishing our sweltering apartment had central air. The kitchen window is open, but the evening breeze isn't enough to cool my heated skin.

"How did you know what time I had to be at work today?"

His eyes widen, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. I didn't think it was possible for him to be any paler, but he seems to blanche under my gaze. He's silent for a long time, and I begin to think he won't answer me at all—then I realize I've seen this expression before.

"This is another one of those things you think I won't like to hear, isn't it?" He lets out the breath he's been holding, and his mouth turns up in a lopsided grin.

"You're catching on."

I wait, confident he'll answer when he's ready.

"Before I can explain that, I think I need to tell you about my family."

I don't understand. How could two such disparate things be connected? And what does he even mean, "family"? Can vampires have families? To me, Edward is a fully formed picture, complete unto himself. I can't see how a perfect piece like him could fit into the puzzle of a family. Then I remember what Angela told me about knowing him back in Forks.

_Well, he always kept to himself—all the Cullens did. He's got a big family. They're all adopted, I think. None of them really made friends with anyone else._

And I remember the words that followed. The ones that cemented my belief that Edward was special, a mystery I had to uncover.

_There were times when it seemed like Edward—his whole family, really—was just . . . different. Like they were playing a role._

"Your family . . . they're all like you, aren't they?"

He nods.

"It's unusual for so many of our kind to choose to live together, but we do—for the most part—quite happily." A strange shadow I don't understand passes over his face, but I don't press.

"Choose? So they're not like your blood relatives?" I stutter on the word "blood", embarrassed by my own timidity.

Edward is kind enough to ignore my gaffe.

"No, we have no genetic bind. Though my father—my maker, more accurately—Carlisle, turned four of us himself. Myself first, then Esme, his mate. Rose and Emmett a few years later. Jasper and Alice were created by others but found their way to us and joined the family."

I have so many questions for him. _What does he mean by "mate"? What are his siblings like? Why did Carlisle change them? Do they sit down and do Sunday dinner together? _ That thought brings forth a barrage of images that make me queasy, and I decide to stop getting ahead of Edward's story.

"Aside from the standard enhancements vampires receive in the process of their change,"—_and what exactly are the "standard enhancements," _I wonder—"a select few find themselves endowed with additional gifts. It's unusual, but not unheard of—like colorblindness in humans. My sister, Alice, for example, can see the future."

"She _what_?" My fork scrapes across the plate with a horrible screech. _Fortune-telling vampires? What's next? Telepathic werewolves? Body-snatching aliens? _

Edward looks wary, like he's waiting for me to lose it. And to be honest, I am a little bit. But I can do this. I want to understand his world, and if that means accepting the improbable, even the impossible, then that's what I'll learn to do. I mean, there's a vampire in my kitchen, for Christ's sake. How much more impossible can it get?

I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. He senses it's safe to continue.

"She has visions—imperfect and constantly in flux—but for the most part . . . accurate." He measures my reaction, and I'm proud to say my heart hardly races at all.

His voice is low and his eyes drop to the table as he says, "She saw what I was going to do to you that first day, what I intended to do—until Angela intervened and changed things. She couldn't contact me in time to warn me away, but she tried. And then she saw how I would come to . . . feel about you, my desire to be near you, and she . . . helped me."

He seems reluctant to say more, but there's no way I'm letting him stop there.

"How did she help?"

Edward is perfectly still, frozen in concentration. If the hot breeze from the window wasn't ruffling the tips of his hair, I could almost believe he was carved from ice. I have the giddy urge to wave my fingers in front of his face, but instead, I pull my hands down to my lap and trap them between my legs. My teeth bite into the flesh of my bottom lip, clamping down on the hysteria bubbling up from my belly.

At last he speaks.

"She told me I would be dangerous to you unless I could acclimate myself to your scent."

"You had to get used to how I smell?"

He nods, meeting my eyes at last.

"How?" I ask, and for the first time, I'm not sure I want to know the answer.

"She told me—" He shakes his head, as if that's wrong. "I followed you."

My jaw drops open, but before I can say anything, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a blue scrap of fabric and tossing it onto the table.

"I took this."

Even tattered from the pressure of his preternaturally strong touch, I recognize the color—deep indigo, _Midnight Blue _according to Crayola—I recognize the yellow face of a once-smiling cartoon girl, her mouth now open and gaping like some horror movie victim. Little Miss Sunshine. My favorite shirt. Ruined.

"How?" I sound like a broken record.

He doesn't mince words; I suppose I wouldn't, either. He can either lie or come clean, but he might as well be brazen about it.

"I snuck in when you left for work—but just the one time. I'm truly sorry." It's amazing how "sorry" can sound so utterly feeble.

"And you followed me? When?"

Now he has the sense to look contrite, and I know he doesn't want to answer this question. I wait. I will wait as long as it takes, though I have a feeling I already know the answer. I remember the impression of eyes on my back and silent streets absent of all life.

My shirt lies on the faded wooden table like some dead thing, and suddenly I can't bear to look at it anymore. I stand up, taking my plate, nearly breaking it as I thrust it into the sink.

"_When_ did you follow me?"

I'm staring at the splattered remains of my dinner, but every cell in my body is focused on him. On what he says next.

"All the time." I don't know if he means me to hear him, his voice is so low.

I can't breathe. I'm trying—desperately—to suck the air in, but my lungs won't expand; my body won't listen to my brain. My hands grip porcelain and my eyes squeeze shut, but nothing works. I'm suffocating. _ I'm going to die, and my last sight is going to be a disgusting tangle of noodles covered in red sauce. How utterly pathetic._ Just as my fingers start to tingle and my knees go weak, I pull in a giant gulp of air, a blessed breath.

It takes me a moment to regain my voice.

"All the time?"

I'm so focused on the ball of anger roiling in my stomach, that at first I don't realize he's standing behind me. I don't recognize his touch. But when his gentle, cold hands caress my arms, my traitorous body can't help but yield infinitesimally.

"Please, Bella . . ." He implores. His breath brushes across my neck, and I shiver at the proximity. "Please. I just wanted to know you. I couldn't stay away."

And I feel myself crack, hot rage bubbling up and boiling over. As I spin and face his chest, glaring up into startled eyes, I'm not looking at a fierce vampire, but staring down the boy who has dared wrong me. I am The Furies come to rip and shred and tear.

"You couldn't stay away? _You couldn't stay away?_ But you never showed yourself! I was looking for you! Every _second_ of the past week. Every possible waking moment, I was LOOKING. FOR. YOU!"

As he watches me spit fire, his expression twists and turns; anguish, disbelief, distress, and hope play across his face. But the one he lands on at last takes me by surprise. With predatory focus, Edward hones in on me, and I no longer doubt my place in this food chain. He is the hunter, I the prey, as his eyes scream nothing less than fiery, passionate lust.

For a moment before his hands grip my waist and his lips come crashing down on mine, I think of resisting him.

Oh, who am I kidding? I don't even spare it a thought.

* * *

Story Recommendation: "Just You and Me" by Stickybuns - A steamy-hot O/S between Bella and Emmett. Oh, and husband Edward gets to watch.


	8. Ch 7 Starlight

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a pretty new tumblr: www(dot)tumblr(dot)com/blog/twilight-moirae

Forever gratitude to darcysmom and Marlena516! Do you know how many times I've mistaken the word "heel" for "heal"? Enough to fill a hospital with shoes. Thanks for polishing up my dull brain, ladies.

Suggested listening:  
"Starlight" by Muse  
"Toxic" by Yael Naim

* * *

**Chapter 7 - Starlight**

**Bella**

Before she met Phil and settled down for good, Renee went through a string of boyfriends—a revolving door of nice guys, bad boys, and everything in between. Inevitably, things would turn sour, and Mom would toss the guy away like a used tissue.

But not before she got in one last frantic round between the sheets.

I could always tell when Renee's latest boy-toy was on his way out by the angry tenor of their nighttime escapades. The headboard would bang a little harder against my bedroom wall, and their muffled groans would ring a little louder.

Mom was usually pretty careful about keeping that sort of thing private, but when a guy was on his way out, the tension in their bed spilled into the rest of the house, filling the air with duel vibrations of lust and fury. I always wondered why she went through the hassle. If she knew she was going to ditch a guy, why not just make a clean break of it? Why drag it out?

I get it now.

Of course, I haven't had sex of any sort—angry or otherwise—but being here with Edward, my back pressed against the kitchen counter and my fingers clawing uselessly at his shoulders, I can definitely see the appeal of break-up sex.

Don't get me wrong—I'm not sure we're even dating, so breaking up isn't on my mind. But I am angry. Furious, in fact.

_He followed me. He was there the whole time. He kept himself from me. _

I want to punish him, make him feel this rage coursing through my veins. I want him to understand the pain of learning he was always within reach—even in those moments I vowed to stop looking, even as hope drained out of me, leaving a ragged hole in my heart.

As our mouths tangle together, I keep my grip tight, scratching my nails against his stone skin and letting my fury boil and bubble until there's nothing left of it but rising vapor. Edward doesn't complain—I can't possibly hurt him, anyway. He just lets me ride out my anger, taking it into himself and pouring out passion of his own.

While my ire dissipates—swirling into the air like harmless fumes—I feel myself rising, floating up and out of my skin. As much as I enjoy the release of my anger and the satisfying crush of our bodies, this is better. I love this feeling of losing myself in him. Drifting into oblivion.

My grip on his shoulders loosens. My hands find their way to his neck and run eager caresses over the nape, fingers twisting into his hair. I tug playfully at his bottom lip with my teeth and smile against his mouth when I'm rewarded by a low groan. My heart races as his hands explore the fleshy curve of my hips; he squeezes gently before moving upward to tease the skin under the hem of my shirt. The space between my legs aches in anticipation, while the rest of my body feels buoyant—weightless.

As I rise higher here in my kitchen—with his delicious body pressed to mine—my thoughts wander to the last time this happened, the last time I allowed myself to be so carried away. With a sickening thump I feel a heavy rock land in my stomach, pulling me down.

It was only hours before, with Edward and I curled together on my couch—our mouths exploring each other as eagerly as our hands. The urgency of his caresses, the way he seemed to need me, made me feel complete yet somehow hungry for so much more.

I remember flying up and up, like Icarus drawn toward the sky, towards freedom. And there I was, rising through my ceiling and into the clouds as Edward pressed against me again and again. I remember being lifted, nearing that beautiful high; remember being startled by the intensity of what we could accomplish with clothes on—the whisper of what it would be like without clothes teasing at me even as I reached that heady peak. And when I burst at last, melting from my draw to the blazing sun, it took me a moment to realize my wings were mangled and my body was smashing to the ground.

I remember Edward's face as his hand closed around the handle of my door, the silent goodbye in his eyes that threatened to break my heart. This thought sobers me, brings me down from the high of his kiss and his touch.

_I can't repeat that scene. I can't lose him._

Edward seems to have no such reservations as his hands grip me tightly around my waist, and his mouth eagerly explores mine. I shift, trying to pull away, trying to give voice to these fears, but his grip only grows tighter, his kiss more insistent. My hands press against his stone chest uselessly, like a kitten pushing on a boulder. I pull my mouth away, and instantly his hand is on the back of my neck, drawing me in again as the other slinks lower, over the pockets of my jeans. My heart is beating a crazy rhythm now, the meter all wrong, and I feel fear creep up my spine and skitter into the spidery network of my nerves. He could do anything to me, and I would be powerless.

_What if he loses control—what would that do to me? _

_To him? _

_To us?_

As panic truly sets in, I go still. I don't resist, don't engage. I just hope. And I trust. I trust that Edward will find himself again. After an endless moment—an eternity captured within a few stilted breaths—he does.

His mouth releases mine, and his iron grip on my body relaxes.

He's backing away, his eyes wide with horror, and I see the nightmare playing out again: his tortured gaze, his silent exit. My panic redoubles, and my limbs start to tremble.

"Stop." I don't know how I've found my voice, but now that I have, I intend to use it. "Just stop. Don't you dare think of leaving."

"Bella . . ." He's begging me, but I'm not sure if he's asking me to let him leave or to give him a reason to stay.

"No. I know what you're thinking, but I'm fine. You didn't hurt me. You _wouldn't_ have hurt me."

"You can't know that—"

"No!" I sound like a screeching bird, but I have to control this. I have to make him see.

"I wanted it. Until the end—" My voice falters, then rises in determination. "I wanted everything you did."

His face is carved in misery, and I understand why he's so upset. He hates losing control. But it's not just his job to keep me safe. _How do I explain this to him?_

"I kept thinking about what happened earlier, and I knew I wasn't helping you." He cringes and moves closer to the door. "Please, just listen! I can see you fighting this war with yourself, and I want to help you. When we were kissing, I knew I wasn't fighting on the right side."

I see the doubt in his eyes, the desire to escape—to protect me—and I wonder if we're destined to play this scene out over and over again. _Will he always have one eye on the exit? Will I be forever struggling to draw him back to me?_

"It's like my scent!" I'm so proud of my revelation it takes me a moment to register the confused look on Edward's face. "You said you had to get used to my scent. That's what your sister told you, right?"

Still uncertain, Edward nods.

"Well, is it better? Are you getting used to it?"

He takes a deep breath through his nose before reluctantly muttering, "Yes."

"So that's what we need to do. We have to get you used to . . ."—suddenly I'm shy, my cheeks burning—"To me. To touching. To kissing." I struggle to get this out, my voice fading to a whisper by the end.

My words give him pause, and I'm glad he seems to genuinely consider them, even if his response isn't as enthusiastic as I'd like.

"It seems impossible, Bella. You're so fragile. I just—I don't know how to do this." He takes a measured breath as my hope starts to slip. "I've never done this before."

This I understand. Doubt. Fear of inadequacy. I feel the connection of that trepidation, and I hope it's enough to pull him to me again.

"Me neither. Can't we learn together?"

"But if I mess up, if I slip, Bella, it would be the end of you, and I can't—" he chokes off, unable to finish.

He looks so broken, and I know that the most basic elements of my existence, my beating heart, my delicate limbs—fragile as eggshells to him—are the cause of this hurt. He's never tried this with a human.

"I'm sorry," I murmur.

His eyes flash, lightning sparking in amber recesses.

"What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I know I'm making this hard for you because I'm human. If I were like the others, if I weren't so fragile—" And these words are the key to closing the horrible distance between us. Somehow, these words have bridged the gap, and he is here with me, hands cradling me tenderly.

"Bella, look at me. There are no others. I've never done this before—_with anyone_." I'm drowning in his extraordinary eyes, and my breath stills. "I've _never_ wanted what I want from you."

I understand what he's saying; I can find the meaning of each word—separately. But I can't comprehend the significance of them together, can't fathom the message my ears are hearing.

_He's never been with anyone? Not even another vampire?_

_How is that possible?_

The way he talks about his "many years on earth", I get the distinct impression he's been around a lot longer than the eighteen or so years his appearance would indicate. How could he have possibly kept himself . . . _untouched_ in that time? But the real evidence is simply what he does to me. How can the kisses we've shared be his first? How can his caresses be untested when they've given me such ecstasy?

"I don't understand."

"Bella, you're it. You've sparked something inside me I never knew was there." He reaches up and cups my face, brushing my cheek with the pads of his thumbs, and he gazes at me like I'm the most precious thing in the world. "I've been very lonely for a very long time."

I can't speak. There's simply no way to respond to what he's saying to me. _I've_ changed him. He wants me—only me. I feel giddy and strange and sleepy under the draw of his beautiful eyes. I think I could stare into them forever.

At last he breaks the spell, drawing closer and shutting his eyes as he rests his forehead against mine. After a moment, he echoes the words I spoke to him, whispering, "Will you help me? Can we learn together?"

I nod, putting my hand in his as I draw him silently into my room.

Angela stumbles in sometime around one a.m., and I wonder briefly if I should let her know I have a guest, to not be surprised to see her former classmate (not eating breakfast) at the table in the morning. But then I hear muffled murmurs, masculine overlapping feminine, and I realize she's probably okay with the whole overnight guest thing.

Edward's body is lovely, my own personal air conditioner in the oppressive heat of my room. My window is open, but the slight relief it offers is no match for the warm air that's been collecting here throughout the day—like a stone oven baking hot though the coals have long since died. I lie above the covers, thin camisole and oversized boxers keeping me decent with the least fabric necessary. Edward has molded himself to my back, cool arm slung protectively over my waist, and I feel heavy and sleepy in his arms.

It was clear to both of us we should avoid any further displays of affection, at least for the night, but he can't help but rub his chin gently against the crown of my head, can't keep his fingers from brushing against my ribs. I tingle where his body meets mine. I need something to distract myself from his touch or we'll be right back were we started—me a hot, steamy mess and him heading for the door.

"Are you going to be able to sleep? I always find it difficult in strange bed."

_Right. Sleep. That's what we're supposed to be doing._

Edward is quiet for a long while, a heavy silence that is becoming so familiar to me. It's amazing how the simplest questions can be so unintentionally loaded. I put my arm over the one he has wrapped around my waist, lace my fingers with his, and give him a reassuring squeeze.

"I don't . . . sleep."

I really need to start preparing myself for these little revelations.

"You don't sleep? At all? _Ever_?" My voice is thick with surprise and exhaustion. I just don't know how much more I can take in one day. I need to stop asking questions.

"No. It's not something vampires do." I can feel him tense in apprehension: _Is this going to be the thing that sets her off, sends her running for the hills?_

"Wow. Just think of all you can accomplish," I snicker.

Hysteria is creeping in. I'm just so tired.

"You must have read like a million books. I can't even imagine what I'd do with all that time." I'm babbling. I watch myself in horror, screaming at this idiot who has taken over my body.

_Shut up! Just close your mouth!_

"I'd probably take up knitting, or guitar, or whittling. Although, that would involve sharp things, and I'm not the most coordinated person ever—"

"Bella."

"—yeah, better stick to less dangerous hobbies. Origami. Baking—"

"BELLA!"

"Huh?"

"I may not sleep, but you obviously need to."

He's laughing at me behind that smooth voice, and I'm too exhausted to care. I have just enough energy to be embarrassed thinking of him lying awake all night while I snore.

"But what are you going to do?" I slur.

"Be with you."

"Won't that be"—yawn—"boring?"

"Not in the slightest." He pulls me closer, drawing a deep breath, and a tremor ricochets through my body. "But perhaps I should leave for a little while to go hunting."

"Oh." My words are a muffled mess. "Will you come back?" I ask, but it comes out sounding like, ". . . tum buk . . ?"

"Of course." He kisses my head one last time before blackness takes me completely.

Hands.

His hands are everywhere. Touching, caressing, exploring my naked flesh.

They're cool and strong, working my body like a master sculptor: smoothing long planes with slow strokes, teasing dips and curves with gentle flicks. Expert digits run a flaming trail along every inch of skin, wicking burning heat up and out my flesh. I don't understand how cold hands can make me feel so warm, but they do. I tingle where they've touched me—crackling electricity licking at my skin and jumping in a wide arc to the space around us.

When the hands find my secret places, I come undone. What magnificent torture—this pleasure marrying pain, this blossoming life and profound, exquisite death. A pulsing, living thing is born of these hands and my body: a revelation of the infinite power and beauty of our combined flesh.

I recognize these hands, know the face to match this feeling, but I can't see him. I _feel_—and that's all that matters. I am warm and complete. I am safe in the shelter of his love. There is nothing else I want in the world—just his hands and his love, and I am whole.

* * *

**Edward**

There are some things that shouldn't be asked of a virginal vegetarian vampire. To be here in Bella Swan's room as she sleeps is chief among them. I stand in the far corner of the room with my hands clutched tightly at my sides. The rich scent of her blood is eclipsed only by the spicy scent of her arousal, and my jaw is clamped shut as her aroma eddies around me. My body is tombstone-still as I resist the overwhelming urge to fly to her bed and sample the source of those beautiful scents. Like Juliet, waiting for black-winged night to bring her beloved Romeo; _I have bought the mansion of a love, but not yet possessed it, and though I am sold, not yet enjoyed_.

And it is driving me absolutely insane.

A cool breeze washes into the room from the open window behind me—harbinger of thick clouds working their way across the dark sky—and I'm thankful for the fresh gust of air. I breathe in deeply, watching Bella's heated skin pebble as cool air passes over. The sweltering heat of the previous evening long ago gave way to the more temperate climes of night, but Bella's body seems to be a furnace fueled from within, warmth radiating out.

As the night began, I reveled in the feel of her flushed skin as she lay encircled in my arms, eyes drifting closed, breath softening in sleep. She'd pleaded with me to stay, and I was pleased that, at last, my cold skin could be put to some use. But as the moon charted its slow course across the sky and Bella's quiet mind wound into a deeper state of dreaming, her rising moans and subtle wriggling unleashed a new torture upon me.

And now I'm here at the window, afraid to move lest my feet carry me not out the door to more base sustenance, but to her side, to the heavenly taste of her in my mouth.

"Edward . . ." My eyes flash to the beauty squirming in her bed. She sighs, the friction of her thighs releasing another heady gust of her scent.

_Oh, God._

Hades couldn't design a more perfect torture for me.

Somehow, I pull myself from her room—opting for the quick escape of the window—and run into the night. I'm at the garage housing my Volvo in minutes, and the sleepy attendant knows better than to ask why I need my car at this hour. I watch the sky as I turn onto Cambridge Street heading for Route 2 and figure I have two hours before sunrise; I need to be back before Bella wakes. I take the winding roads into Concord much faster than law would allow and park on a deserted country lane on the edge of one of many wildlife preserves in the area.

I'm much closer to humanity than is wise—small concentrations of homes and scattered farms dotting the landscape—but I don't have patience to go further afield. Every second out is a second away from Bella.

I hear the heavy beat of an animal heart near a trickling stream, and in minutes the limp form of a large white-tailed buck is at my feet, his eyes glassy and vacant. I should find another to sate the bloodlust Bella has stoked in me, but I'm really not hungry, having hunted nightly for the past week. My belly sloshes uncomfortably as I run through the woods, returning to my car, returning to Bella. After dropping the car off and stopping at home for a quick shower, I'm once again climbing up the back of Bella's house, slinking onto her windowsill—smiling, because this time I'm welcome.

Thankfully, her feverish dreams have given way to something tamer in my absence, and her body has cooled, the internal fire gone. I pull a blanket over her delicate frame before resuming my vigil on the bed behind her, my new favorite place in the world.

She sighs contentedly and snuggles closer to me. I don't understand why she wants this, why she seems just as drawn to me as I am to her, but if this is what she wants, I'll give it to her. Because as much as I know she would be so much better off without me, I can't bring myself to leave.

I want her.

I need her.

I love her.

* * *

**Bella**

In the history of awkward breakfasts—and I've experienced quite a few—this one ranks among my top. It lands somewhere between catching-Renee-and-Phil-doing-it-in-my-car pancakes and Renee's-surprise-red-tent-party blueberry muffins. This morning it's toast; everyone-acting-casual-about-the-morning-after toast, to be specific.

Edward looks alternately amused, confused, and disturbed as he leans against the kitchen counter holding an untouched cup of coffee while eying the couple at the two-seater table. Angela is pushing a spoon through her cereal, her gaze glued to the chipped ceramic bowl like it holds the meaning of life. Spencer is grinning like it's Christmas morning, oblivious to the rest of us, milk dripping down his chin as he takes giant, noisy bites from his bowl. And I am occupying myself making toast and tea with some fruit on the side—afraid to stop moving, afraid my surreptitious looks to the other three are becoming obvious.

I'm in the midst of buttering a fourth untouched piece of toast when Edward's hand reaches out to me, stilling my frenetic movement. He just smiles in that sweet, reassuring way of his, and the nervous energy flows out of me.

So what if we're all doing some strange, confined version of the walk of shame? So what if Angela and Spencer think I hopped into bed with Edward after knowing him for half a second? So what if I will never be able to scrub from my mind the image of Spencer running to the bathroom, clad only in his Chewbacca boxers? _Scratch that last—that is not something I can shrug off so easily._ Edward is here with me, and I'm happy. That's all that matters.

As I take a tentative bite of toast, I think about the way I woke up and how it made me very happy, indeed.

_My eyes are still closed when a cool hand brushes the hair from my neck and places a chaste kiss on the tender skin there. I feel warm and safe and right, like I've been waking up next to him my whole life. _

_I smile lazily and try to remember the dream I was having . . . something about a meadow filled with wildflowers. It slips away like smoke through my fingers, and I open my eyes. The morning light is subdued, filtered through heavy clouds. I look down and see the source of my warmth: I'm wrapped tightly in my comforter, my body separated from Edward's by the heavy white barrier._

"_Good morning," says a silken voice, and I snuggle into him, wishing this stupid blanket were gone._

"_Do I have to wake up?" I ask in a raspy mumble. "I was having the nicest dream."_

"_I'm not sure I could take any more of your dreams, love," he chuckles._

_With that my eyes are open wide, and I'm spinning toward him, becoming more and more tangled in my cloth prison. Finally, I push my arms out and manage to sit up._

"_Why? What did I do?" _

_A fuzzy memory of cool hands caressing my body struggles to surface, and my heart races. Edward draws himself up lazily, and I want to smack that smug grin off his face. Or kiss it off. Yeah, definitely kiss. He runs his hands leisurely down my arms and leans in so close I think I can almost taste his sweet icy breath._

"_Well, you talk in your sleep."_

_My cheeks burn, and I consider crawling back under the covers._

"_I do?" I squeak, praying that's the end of it, praying he'll say no more. Of course, my prayers go unheard._

"_And wiggle."_

"_Oh, God," I groan._

"_My thought, exactly." _

_His piercing gaze travels over me, charting a course from my eyes to my lips, down my neck and across the expanse of my shoulders, at last circling back to my face. My flesh is hot where his eyes roam, and he inhales deeply, burning with undisguised desire. _

"_It was very distracting. You made it very difficult to keep the appropriate distance." _

_He is making no effort to keep that distance now, brushing his hands up and down my arms, teasing my collarbone with cold, satin caresses. My nipples tighten, and I feel a sudden dampness between my legs. This is better than my dream, and in some ways, so much worse._

"_May I ask you a question?" he murmurs, those soft golden eyes—lighter this morning—twinkling in amusement and lust. I manage a nod. _

"_Most of what you said was indecipherable, but I did catch two distinct words: 'Edward' and 'hands.'" He leans in, brushing his mouth against my ear, raising goosebumps on my flesh, and I wonder if my desire might finally be outpacing my embarrassment. "Do you mind telling me what it is my hands were doing?"_

_This time my groan is not in mortification. Shame has been burned away in the flame of my lust. My hands are on him, and my mouth is pressed to his, and I don't care that I must taste awful, because he did this, he filled me with this overwhelming need, and we are touching and kissing and floating, once again._

_I thought I could be strong. I thought I would have the power to tell him, "No, we need to think about what we're doing," but my resolve is a useless thing against his touch. I just want more. _

_What could be wrong about this feeling? What could possibly be wrong about feeling desired and happy and whole?_

_When Edward gently pushes me away—my hands still grasping his shirt, desperately trying to pull him back—I curse his willpower and feel grateful for it at the same time._

"_I truly hate to break this off—such a sweet 'good morning'—but I think we may have company soon."_

_That tames my hands for the moment. "What do you mean?"_

"_I think Angela is worried about you. I have a . . . hunch . . . she's going to check on you."_

"_Oh." _

_I jump up, the idea of company in this state mortifying, and I'm suddenly self-conscious about the ridiculously skimpy outfit I wore to bed. In the haze of night it seemed perfectly reasonable, but here—under Edward's intense appraisal—the camisole feels too thin, the boxers too short. I jump into a pair of jeans, just to get something on, and I hear a knock at the door._

"_Yes?" My voice is thin and high as my head whips toward Edward—he's not telling me something. _

"_Bella? Are you up?" Angela says through the door. I throw on a hoodie as I cross the room, opening the door a crack._

"_Yeah. You need something?"_

"_Oh, I just . . . I felt bad about leaving you alone last night. Are you okay?"_

"_Yup. I'm fine." I'm trying to sound upbeat, but it's coming out strangled and horrible. My face is pressed between the door and the frame, and she glances curiously at the barrier._

"_Okay . . . well, I um, also wanted to let you know that Spencer stayed last night." She sounds like she's confessing a speeding ticket to her parents while she sneaks a guilty look at her room. _

_I aim to sound casual. "I thought so. I heard you guys come in."_

"_Oh, I hope we weren't loud—" Her eyes are saucers as she realizes the double meaning of her words. When her face blanches, I quickly cut her off._

"_No! No! I just heard you come in, and then I fell asleep."_

_I'm not sure what to say; the implication is pretty clear. Is "Good for you!" too flippant? Would it be rude to ask if she used protection? I settle on saying nothing more on the subject. But of course, I have my own speeding ticket to reveal. I briefly consider hiding Edward in my room all day, but I see the awkward pain on Angela's face, realize what it's costing her to be honest about Spencer, and I know I owe her nothing less. _

"_I, um, had a friend over too."_

_She's like some bush baby as she takes this in, all wide eyes and pursed mouth. She stares hard at my door as though it might reveal the secret of my overnight guest. _

"_Really? Who?"_

"_Edward." _

_It feels stupid to keep hiding him behind the door, so I draw it open and look behind me to find Edward looking like sex and ice cream sitting on the windowsill. He grins widely, no embarrassment marring the perfect ease of his expression._

"_Hi, Angela. Nice to see you again." It's like watching a tiger stalk a herd of gazelle, the way he commands the space._

"_You too, Edward. Great. Well, I'm just going to go make some coffee," she says as she backs into the kitchen, bumping into the table on the way. "See you in a bit."_

"_Indeed," he says before I close the door._

_I turn around and bang my head against the wood. "God! Do you have to look so . . . edible? She must think I'm such a slut."_

_Edward chuckles and hones in on me, slinking across the room. He takes my cheeks in his hands and pins me down with his stare. "You think I look edible?"_

"_Well, duh, you're like . . ." I wave my hand at him as though that explains it all. The heat of his gaze forces the breath out of my lungs. Does a heavy sigh translate to "irresistible"? His smile is earnest and utterly lacking in vanity as he leans down and kisses me softly. _

"_I'm sure she just wants you to be happy. Angela's a good friend."_

_I smile up at him, and suddenly it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. I've got my own personal Romeo holding me. What else could possibly matter? _

"Hey, Ang," Spencer's voice breaks the silence, and I struggle to shake the memory away. His phone is in his hand, and he's scrolling through a webpage I can't see. "We should go see a movie before our shift starts. The Brattle is doing a second run of _Coraline_ this week. If we're quick, we could catch the first matinee."

She looks up at him and smiles, her determined focus on her bowl forgotten. "I love Neil Gaiman."

"I know. I saw _The Sandman_ on your shelf and just figured . . ." It makes me smile, the way they seem to speak the same language.

Angela turns to us and asks, "Do you guys want to come? Bella, I know it's your day off; Edward, do you have anything?"

I start to panic. _Can we go outside? _It's overcast now, but what if the sun comes out while we're walking? How are we going to explain it if we have to dodge under a clump of trees for twenty minutes on our way to the theater? Does he even want to spend the day together? It seems mighty presumptuous of me to think Edward has nothing better to do than go to a movie with me. Suddenly this thing I have with him—_which is what, exactly? I should really talk to him about that_—feels much more fraught with complication than I'd been anticipating.

_Right._

_I mean, he's a vampire with a serious martyr complex, and he thinks I'd be a super-tasty snack. He doesn't eat food, and he doesn't sleep—ever! He has a psychic sister, and I can't seem to keep my freaking hands off of him even though physical contact poses a serious threat to my future ability to be alive. And now the fact that he can't go out into the sun complicates things? _

_I'm such a dope._

There's a buzzing in Edward's pocket, and he pulls his phone out, reading a text. His smile is bright as the sun as he says, "My schedule's free. Do you want to go?"

There's something about the way he's looking at me that calms my unspoken fears. I think about being in a darkened theater next to Edward, and my heart starts to race. He eyes the blush on my cheeks, and I swallow hard, trying not to let my voice betray me.

"Yeah. Sounds fun."

* * *

Story Rec: "Isabella of Lore" by TheManiacalMuse - Geektastic O/S with roll playing, action figures (don't call them dolls!), and "Nightfall" obsessed Bella. Hilarious/Sweet/Wonderful.


	9. Ch 8 Let Go

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own everything Neil Gaiman has ever written.

Love love love to darcysmom and Marlena516. I write it. They fix it. You read it.

Thank you to all of my readers - those that have been here from the beginning and the new folks who have just discovered this story. You are why I spend hours everyday neglecting my kids and housework.

Suggested listening:  
"Let Go" by Frou Frou  
"Such Great Heights" by Iron and Wine

* * *

**Chapter 8 - Let Go**

I am thinking it's a sign  
That the freckles in our eyes  
Are mirror images and when we kiss  
They're perfectly aligned  
And I have to speculate  
That God himself did make us  
Into corresponding shapes  
Like puzzle pieces from the clay

"Such Great Heights" - Iron and Wine

**Edward**

While Bella showers, I place a quick call to Alice; I need to thank her for the weather forecast. Instead of her tinkling voice, I'm greeted by an ear-splitting squeal that raises the hair on the back of my neck. It's grating, like the sharp sound of metal on metal as a train brakes to a halt. On and on it goes, for much longer than should be possible on a single lungful of air.

_Alice must be storing extra oxygen in her head._

The squeal loses some volume, and I realize it's not because Alice is losing steam, but because Jasper has taken the phone from her.

"Hey, man. I think you broke my woman—she's been like that all night."

Of course she has. I smile, thinking about Bella and I together last night and what Alice saw. But the smile slides off my face when I think of everything she would have seen: me losing control, me nearly killing Bella. My stomach clenches. I draw in a deep breath and remind myself that Bella is fine, she has faith in me—deserved or not—and that gives me strength.

Jasper's voice breaks me from the morose thoughts.

"After the first hour, Rosalie and Emmett had to leave the house. Even Esme's starting to crack. Will you please help us out here?"

"I'll do my best," I say through a smile.

His voice is low as he addresses my delirious little sister.

"Darlin', please. Edward called for a reason. Don't you want to talk to him?"

I imagine him sending calming waves to his mate, her bouncing body stilling the slightest bit. The squeal finally abates, and Alice returns to the line.

"Oh, Edward, I'm so happy for you I can hardy stand it! I know you had a couple rough patches last night, but mostly you did so well! I'm so proud of you! You look so happy, and she looks so happy, and I just can't believe it's finally coming together for you—"

"Alice!"

"What?"

"_Breathe_." She huffs petulantly but seems to follow my command. "And thank you. I couldn't have done this without you."

"Don't mention it. Just don't get all broody and second-guessy, and everything will be fine. Bella's meant for you, Edward. I can see it—she's your future."

Then my future walks into the room, and I can't see anything but her.

"I gotta go, Alice. Please give the family a break from the squealing, all right?"

"Whatever. Don't mess this up. She's my new sister; she's gonna be important to me too." That thought makes me smile. Then she says something that makes absolutely no sense.

"Oh, and just tell them you were showing Bella your Michael Jackson impression."

_What? _

_Nevermind. I don't want to know._

"Bye, Alice."

Bella's wavy hair is wet from the shower, and she's wearing a gauzy, brown knee-length skirt and an ivory peasant top. It's more feminine than anything I've seen her wear, and I wonder what inspired the change.

"You look lovely." She's hovering near the door, and a blush overtakes her cheeks.

"Thanks," she says breathily, embarrassed by the complement. We're going to have to work on that, because I intend to compliment her quite frequently. "So, you were talking to your sister? The one who can see . . ."

"Yes. Alice."

"Why was she squealing?"

"She's just feeling a little excited by the prospect of you—" Unable to stay away any longer, I cross the room and pull Bella close. "—and me."

Her breath comes in light little pants, and her heart flutters. I love that sound, love the way I affect her body. I draw a deep breath of her scent and feel it hit my system, like a junkie taking a hit.

"So, she was watching us . . . last night? What did she see?" Her voice is cautious and high.

"Well, if she was really focusing—and I have good reason to believe she was—she probably saw everything."

Bella swallows thickly, and her eyes widen.

"Oh."

"I'm sorry, Bella. I know it can feel like an intrusion at times, but there isn't much privacy in my family." I brush a stray lock of hair away from her forehead and let my fingers linger amid the soft, wet strands. "It's something you'll have to get used to."

Her face drains of color, and her jaw hangs loose. I think about what I said and how presumptuous it was. _What if she doesn't want to be part of my family? Of course, who would want to be part of a vampire family?_ The idea terrifies me, but before I can ask her what she's thinking, Angela knocks on the door, and Bella turns to answer it.

"Are you guys ready? We'll need to leave soon if we want to catch the movie."

"Yeah," Bella replies, "we'll be right out." She closes the door and turns to me with a tight smile.

"I just need to get my shoes."

Edging around me, she goes to her closet and pulls on a pair of brown leather sandals. There's a faraway look on her face; she's totally distracted. I know I can't let her spend the rest of the day worrying about this, so I take a few steps to close the distance.

"It's okay, Bella. I don't have any expectations for us. I mean, I know what I'd like, of course, but we can just focus on taking things one day at a time." I take her chin in my hand and lift it so she meets my gaze. "Okay?"

For some reason, instead of reassuring her, my words seem to have wounded her. Her mouth falls into a frown, and her eyes turn glassy.

"Of course. One day at a time," she shakily replies as she pulls away from me and walks out of the room.

_Damn. What did I say?_

Angela and Spencer are waiting at the front door as Bella approaches them. As I get closer, I see they're all staring at the Edward-shaped dent in the wall.

_Oh, no_.

"Wow," says Angela, "I didn't notice this when we came in last night. What the hell happened?"

Bella is shooting panicked glances my way, and I'm wracking my brain for some plausible excuse. Then it hits me, and I send a silent thanks to Alice.

"Michael Jackson," I say, and three sets of eyes stare at me like I've grown an extra head.

"Michael Jackson?"

"Yeah, Bella bet me I couldn't do the moonwalk, and I was proving her wrong. I guess I didn't realize how close I was to the wall was when I was doing it . . ." _Oh, wow, this is so lame. They're never going to buy it._ "I'm sorry. I'll have it repaired, of course."

Spencer, of all people, comes to my rescue.

"Jeez, Edward, it looks like a wampa smashed into that wall. You must do an enthusiastic moonwalk."

"Wampa?" Bella whispers to Angela.

"Nevermind," comes her quiet reply, and I exhale a sigh of relief as they make their way out the door. Spencer is the last one out, and he flips the lock on the handle before closing the door.

"Hey man," he says conspiratorially as we walk down the stairs, "will you teach me sometime?"

I'm assaulted by an image of an unclothed Spencer wooing Angela with his "best moves", and I make a pledge to stay out of his mind from now on. After his thoughts at breakfast, I'll never look at a ukulele the same way again.

Bella and Angela lead the way toward the theater, arms twined and heads bent toward each other. Spencer and I trail behind, forced together in some kind of male-bonding exercise. I'm relieved when he seems as reluctant as I to converse.

As we move through the quiet neighborhood, I watch Bella's skirt swing from side to side, the breeze ruffling the hem to reveal a slip of creamy thigh; suddenly, walking behind Bella isn't such a bad thing.

Murmured words pass between the girls, too soft for human ears, but I catch them all. It's probably wrong to take advantage this way—Bella has no idea how good my hearing is—but this rare glimpse into her mind is just too tempting to pass up, and I eagerly drink in every word.

I brace myself for the inevitable squeals and giggles, the eager revelation of secrets, the gasps of surprise. In my experience, young women wield their words like weapons, barter with them like currency. But as I listen to the pair locked together intimately, I realize they sound nothing like their peers. This conversation isn't sharp and brassy; this conversation is a strange, delicate, half-formed thing, like wisps of colorful tissue paper floating through the air.

I hone in on Angela's inner voice, eager to piece a fuller picture together from her broken images and unspoken thoughts.

"I'm really glad you decided to come, Bell. I've missed you."

Bella sighs. "I know. Me too."

_I thought I'd lost you._

"I'm sorry," Bella begins.

"No, Bella, you don't—"

"Yes, I do. I really am sorry, Ang. I haven't been a good friend—I know—but I'm going to do better. I promise."

I didn't know there was any rift to repair, but I'm glad Bella and her friend are doing so.

_What happened to you? Was it all about Edward? _Angela thinks, but she says, "Did you work out what you needed to?"

"I think so."

"So, no more walks?"

"No. I'm done with those."

Bella's words from last night come back to me—the ones that made it clear what she was looking for all that time she spent wandering the streets this past week—and my hands ache to touch her. I couldn't believe it, couldn't fathom I would mean so much to her. Even as her fury crashed over me, I could feel myself burn with desire. _She has just as much invested in me—just as much need for me—as I for her._ It was intoxicating, that feeling of being wanted, and my body responded in kind.

This, of course, is yet another in a growing list of moments I've found myself losing control with Bella. As the memory unfolds, I curse myself again for being unable to pull myself away for good, unable to do the right thing for her.

We reach an intersection and turn right onto Broadway, passing a construction site on the left. Metallic scrapes and masculine shouts fill the air, and I'm thankful for the distraction. Once we cross the iron scrollwork of the gate at Harvard Yard, however, the atmosphere is infused with a peaceful decorum, as though anything as crude as the sound of a backhoe loader is simply not allowed onto the hallowed grounds. Under quiet grey skies and ancient elms and oaks, the girls continue their hushed conversation.

"So, Spencer, huh?" Bella gently probes.

"Yeah." Angela pictures herself in a darkened bar, brushing a line of foam from Spencer's lip. He smiles and takes her hand.

"I could see it coming. Happened faster than I thought it would, though."

"Fast? Really?" Angela turns to Bella, eyebrows raised high behind her glasses.

_If Spence and I happened fast, you and Edward happened at light speed._

"Oh God, Ang, I know what it looks like but I didn't—we haven't—" Bella's voice is panicked, and I wish she didn't feel so embarrassed. I do, however, enjoy the flush Angela sees rising to her cheeks.

"I know, sweetie, don't worry."

"You know?"

"Yeah, I mean anyone who blushes around a guy that much obviously hasn't seen his bits and pieces."

"Oh."

Bella looks relieved. She hesitates before speaking again.

"You don't seem to blush around Spencer."

I struggle to block the images flooding Angela's mind.

"No, I don't," she says with a devious grin.

We follow a zig-zagging path through the Harvard grounds, keeping off the neatly manicured lawn. A tour group crosses in front of the girls, and they pause to let it by. I risk a glance at Spencer, realize he's humming the Zelda theme song, and shake my head.

"Are you happy?" Bella asks, after a moment.

There's no hesitation in Angela's response. "Yeah, I really am. He's so . . . well, you know . . . but he's also sweet and smart and surprisingly intuitive for someone who seems zoned-out half the time."

"He's only zoned-out over you, Ang."

Angela smiles.

"How about you? You and Edward seem really . . . intense."

Angela pictures Bella and I at the counter during breakfast. She's taking a surreptitious peek, and in that short glimpse she sees the way Bella has stilled her frenzied movements under my hand, sees two people lost in each other.

"Yeah, it feels intense."

"Are you happy?"

"Happy?" Bella pauses for a long time, and I feel myself sinking with the weight of her silence. "At times. I don't know. Sometimes, everything seems perfect, like I have more than I could possibly ask for—or deserve. I just can't believe how lucky I am that someone like Edward wants me in his life."

Thankfully, Angela interrupts her before I do.

"Bella, he's the lucky one."

While I nod my head in silent agreement, Bella continues as though she hasn't heard.

"But then he says something that makes me think he's doesn't feel the same way, that I'm not as important to him. He keeps trying to pull away, and it hurts _so_ _much_. But I know I'd do anything to get him to stay."

"Good Lord, Bella, it's only been a day."

"I know! I _know_. It's completely ridiculous—I shouldn't feel this way after so little time." She picks at the hem of her shirt and seems to weigh her thoughts.

"It's like I've been living my whole life in this fog—like I've been stuck on a plane, breathing stale, recycled air the whole time. And it was fine because I didn't know any better. But when I met Edward, it was as though someone blew the doors off the plane; for the first time, I took a breath of clean, fresh air. It's amazing, and I can't get enough."

She pauses, and then throws her hands out, gesturing wildly.

"But the doors have been freaking _blown off_! It's dangerous! There's a chance the whole thing will come crashing down, but I still can't imagine going back to the way it was before. I'd rather jump off the plane."

I can't even process all that I've heard. It'll take me days to unpack the feelings she voiced, and I wish with everything in me that she felt she could express them to me.

Bella huffs a bitter laugh and says, "I sound crazy."

"You sound like you're in love."

"What? No. That would be insane. We just met."

"I'm just telling you what it sounds like to me," Angela says, leaning in to nudge Bella's shoulder.

"But that just doesn't happen."

"Okay, airplane girl." _You just keep telling yourself that._

Love? _Love?_ Is it possible? My silent heart aches with the possibility of Bella returning my feelings, and for a moment I'm swept away by fantasies of quiet domestic moments: Bella's head in my lap as I read to her, Bella's hand in mine as we walk silent streets together, Bella's body wrapped in my arms as I make love to her. I love this woman. If only she could love me back, my past, my life—my existence—might finally mean something. I could walk through this world happy with Bella by my side.

Once more we're passing through iron gates, and the serenity of red brick and ivy is left behind. Mass Ave bustles with commuters on foot and in cars. Tourists jockey for space on the sidewalks of Harvard Square, and bikes slip in between taxis and buses on the busy road. I can't reconcile the quiet warmth spreading through my frame with the anxious activity all around me. I focus on the sway of Bella's hair, the rustle of her skirt, and the flexing and relaxing of her calves as she walks; everything else fades away.

"Hey, Bella?" says Angela as we near our destination.

"Yeah?"

"Please tell me that moonwalk story wasn't real. I don't think I could ever look at Edward the same way."

The unexpected question makes Bella laugh, but her smile quickly falters. What can she say? I cringe in anticipation, hoping her lie is more believable than mine.

"No, it wasn't." She doesn't elaborate.

"But you can't tell me, can you?"

Bella purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. "No."

Angela draws in a deep breath as she descends a short flight of stairs to The Brattle. As she approaches the ticket window, she turns to Bella and simply says, "Okay."

I can't believe that's it, can't believe she's willing to let it go. I want to hug Angela. I want to spend the rest of the day eavesdropping on these girls, plucking the truth from my love's heart. But we're here, and it's been too long since I touched Bella. It's time I had her to myself again.

"Hey, ladies," I say smoothly, as though my world hasn't just shifted on its axis. "Are you done plotting on behalf of the fairer sex, or shall we give you more time?"

Bella smiles as she crosses to me, placing a small kiss on my lips and beaming up at me.

"What was that for?" I ask.

"Just enjoying the fresh air."

* * *

**Bella**

Angela and Spencer buy their tickets for the movie while Edward and I share a quiet moment. It's been maybe fifteen minutes since we last touched, but every second apart felt like an hour. Being away from him—even separated by just a few feet—makes me feel off somehow, like I've left something important behind. But I'm complete now in his arms. Is this what Angela was talking about—this overwhelming need for him? Is this love? I have no flipping clue, and I don't care as long as he keeps holding me like this.

I lose myself in his light amber eyes and wonder if it's only me who feels this aching need to be close all the time. Then he pulls me in and bends down, brushing his nose along my neck while inhaling deep and long—like I'm the only air he wants to breathe—and I know he feels it too.

It's hard to think when he's got his hands on my back and his face pressed to my suddenly-hot skin, and I just want to run back to my room and start practicing "getting him used to me" right now. My hands cup his face, and I pull up so his mouth meets mine. The kiss is soft and sweet and everything I want. He brushes his tongue against my lips, and I open to him. A moan escapes me, unbidden.

_He tastes so good._

His breath is all minty-cool and clean—like winter air—but his taste is sweet and warm, like hot cinnamon candies. I can't get enough of him. I draw his bottom lip into my mouth and suck gently, licking the delicious flesh, smiling when a lovely purr rumbles up from his chest.

Angela coughs quietly behind me, and I realize we're not, in fact, alone in my room, but standing in a sunken courtyard, putting on an increasingly explicit show for my friends and the kid at the ticket counter. My cheeks burn. I move to apologize, but Edward doesn't release me, simply turning me so I'm circled in his arms, my back to his chest.

"Sorry, guys. We'll get our tickets."

Edward leans down and whispers into my ear, "I'm not sorry."

The shiver running down my spine settles between my legs, and I hold in a gasp. He keeps hold of my hand as I pull myself from his arms, and I grin at the sweet, silent expression of affection.

As we pass Angela, she throws me a knowing smile and mutters, "Nice blush, Bella." I nearly smack her arm, but I don't want to draw any more attention to myself, so I just ignore her and address the dark-eyed boy behind the counter wearing a name tag that says "Vikram."

"Two for _Coraline,_ please." My voice hardly wavers at all.

Angela and Spencer walk inside to the concession stand, laughing together, and I know they're laughing at us, but I just keep pretending I don't care. As I start to pull out my wallet, Edward stops my hand and says, "Allow me."

"I can get it."

"Please, Bella, my mother taught me better manners than to allow a date to pay for herself."

Before I can stop him, he pushes a couple bills across the counter. I'm slightly distracted by the fact that he just called this a date, but still, he shouldn't feel obligated to pay. I try to mask my irritation with gentle teasing.

"Which mother might that be?"

His reply is a smirk as he takes the tickets and offers me his arm.

"Both."

One of my favorite things about Edward is the way he carries himself, how polite he is—like some well-bred gentleman from an Austen novel. More than once, I've entertained the thought that I've stumbled upon my own personal Mr. Darcy. And I love that he wants to spend time with me, wants to take me out. But something about his insistence on paying is rubbing me the wrong way. We're not in a Victorian novel—why can't I treat him? Then inspiration strikes and I smile, knowing this question is cheeky, but not caring the slightest.

"And were either of them born in the twentieth century?"

His eyes widen, then narrow with a mischievous glint. He pauses with his hand on the theater door, presumably in an effort to keep the conversation private.

"Why, Miss Swan, are you doubting my mothers' feminist credibilities? I'll have you know, Esme takes great pride in her friendship with Betty Friedan."

My mind searches for the meaning behind the familiar-sounding name, and I gasp when it comes to me.

"Betty Friedan? _The Feminine Mystique,_ Betty Friedan?"

He shines a smug smile down on me. "One and the same."

"Oh my gosh, that book is my mom's bible."

"Esme would be pleased to hear that—she helped edit it."

Before I can say anything else, Edward leans down and whispers in my ear, "And as for my birth mother, I was her frequent companion at suffragette rallies."

I do a quick calculation and gasp. I was only teasing—I didn't actually think Edward was . . . _a hundred years old! _He continues, not noticing the sudden weakness in my knees.

"The terms 'gentleman' and 'feminist' are not mutually exclusive, love."

When Edward opens the door to the theater, I'm not sure I'll be able to move, but he places his hand on the small of my back and gently guides me over the threshold. I'm certain the conversation isn't over, but we can hardly continue, here, among trampled popcorn and prying eyes. As we follow Angela and Spencer up a narrow, winding flight of stairs to the small theater at the top, I know the movie is a lost cause.

My focus on the outside world fades as I think about everything Edward's revealed in the past minute. I picked at one little snag in the fabric of his history, and instead of a single strand, he revealed a million linked threads, all begging to be loosed. _What year was he born? What was his childhood like? Could he have met Roosevelt? Mother Theresa? Gandhi? What was he doing during Vietnam? Did he go to Woodstock? What does he think of modern medicine? Commercial air travel? Computers? What else has Esme accomplished? All of his family?_ I think my head might short circuit with the questions that are flashing through it as fast as lightning.

My heart is beating heavy and fast, and I barely notice when we sit down—girls sandwiched between boys—and the lights dim. My hands grip my knees as another million questions pass through my mind in the length of a single rasping breath. Images flicker on the screen—dancing soda cups followed by previews for the latest Sundance darlings—but none of them register. All sound is muffled as the blood in my ears pounds _ba-boom! ba-boom!,_ louder than a bass drum. Angela brushes her hand along my shoulder, and I turn to her, reading the words on her lips.

"Are you all right?"

I nod dumbly and offer an upturn of my mouth. She looks doubtful, but I can't muster anything greater than that hollow reassurance.

When Edward's fingers graze the inside of my forearm, I shudder, and my smile comes a little more naturally. His hand brushes down the network of veins to the sensitive flesh at my wrist, encouraging me to release the iron grip on my leg. He twines his fingers in mine and draws my hand up to the armrest, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. At last, my body relaxes. I didn't realize my shoulders were drawn tight, but now they ease down, falling away from my ears.

It's amazing how his touch affects me, like a snake charmer drawing a tightly-coiled serpent up into a languorously swaying dance. I feel like rubbing myself against him and purring.

He seems to read my mind, leaning over to brush his nose across my temple and whispering, "It's okay, love. Just breathe."

I follow his instructions, taking a deep, steadying breath, and my brain quiets. We can talk about all of this later. Right now, I'm sitting in a darkened theater with the most handsome man in the world. As his scent washes over me, electricity sparks in our clasped hands, and I realize I have an entirely new distraction from the movie.

With my heart speeding, my breath growing shallow, and heat rising between my legs, I'm not sure if that's a bad thing or a very good thing.

* * *

Did you like it? Press that little "review" button and let me know!

Story recommendation: "Hedone Ranch" by JenJadeEyes - Are you in the mood for some dirty DIRTY smut? This one's for you. Follow Bella's journey to sexual awareness. Lots of pairings, but it looks like she'll end up with Edward in the end.


	10. Ch 9 Home

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own an intense appreciation for the macabre.

You are my sunshine, **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**.

I've had some truly lovely reviews rolling in and I want to thank each and every one of you for them. Your words make me smile.

Suggested listening:  
"Home" by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros  
"Home" by She and Him

* * *

**Chapter 9 - Home**

I want to see you with the light in the morning  
There's never been such a beautiful warning to me, to me  
Why don't we just sit and stare and do nothing?  
Nothing at all for a while, I like the way you smile

I could be your state and I could be your nation  
It doesn't get better than home, now does it?  
Doesn't get better than home, now does it?

I could be your welcome, I could be your greeter  
I could be sweet and I could be sweeter  
I want to be where your heart is home

"Home" - She and Him

**Edward**

"It's this way."

Bella's hand is clasped casually in mine as she leads me along the footpath next to the Charles. On our left, the bustle of traffic on Memorial Drive; on our right, a serene, serpentine river bordered in green. The gently rippling water reflects thick, ash-colored clouds and eager patches of white.

I'm not sure where we're going—I'm just thrilled Bella feels compelled to share whatever it is with me. I don't think I would have taken it well if she had wanted to part ways after the movie. After feeling that unexpected electricity crackling between us in the dark—exactly one hundred and fourteen torturous minutes of keeping my body still, holding myself back from the overwhelming urge to rip her clothes off and pound into her right there on the plush velvet seats—I need Bella's reassuring touch to remind myself that I am not, in fact, a debased, licentious degenerate. I'm in control here in the open air, but still, I won't risk more than simple hand-holding, afraid even a tender kiss could incite that unquenchable thirst once again.

I guess something inside this body still believes it's seventeen years old.

A group of geese shuffling along the riverbank scatter at our approach, and Bella sneaks a sideways glance at me.

"Animals don't like you, do they?"

"No. They sense I'm a predator and instinctively shy away."

I don't say, _Animals are apparently more adept at self-preservation than certain humans I know._

Instead, I joke, "Geese are pretty safe from me, though."

"I thought I was going crazy . . . or a sadistic wildlife serial killer had moved to town," she says, with no preamble. I like the way she doesn't feel the need to explain herself further.

"I'm sorry, Bella."

"Why? You didn't eat my neighbors' pets, did you?" Her tone is teasing. Mostly.

"No, I prefer larger game," I reassure her. And then I shake my head, knowing that detail probably isn't reassuring at all. I'm fairly certain she knows what I was actually apologizing for, but if she wants to hear me say it I will.

"I'm sorry you were upset by my following you."

"That's not the same as being sorry for following me."

"No, it's not."

_How could I be sorry for doing something that was necessary to my survival?_ Being near Bella is as integral to my existence as breathing is to hers.

Bella wanders off the asphalt path onto a patch of emerald grass, still holding my hand. She pauses under a collection of blossoming pink and white cherry trees. They look like blushing debutants at their first cotillion.

"I guess I understand why you did it," she concedes. "I just want you to see how unfair it was to me. What if you were looking for me, obsessing over me—_every day for a week_—and the whole time I was hiding myself away, skulking in the shadows, watching you?"

"I don't skulk."

She raises a perfectly shaped brow.

"I know, Bella—it was absolutely unfair to you. But I had no idea you were looking for me. I thought for sure you would never want to see me again. How could I have guessed you'd be so crazy as to have actually sought me out after what I'd done?"

"I'm not crazy," she retorts as she caresses my cheek, her eyes darting quickly back and forth between mine. "Who could possibly resist a beautiful mystery like you?"

Suddenly, I realize that she's never spoken the words I so desperately need to hear.

"Do you forgive me, Bella? For your window, for following you, for . . . losing control. Please say you do." I can't have this between us. Even an ounce of resentment from her would crush me.

Her brows furrow as she considers my question. "Will you promise to stop trying to run away from me?"

"What does that—?"

"Answer the question," she demands, before I can finish.

_Will I? Can I? I don't know._ Every moment I allow myself to put her in danger feels like a betrayal. _How can I love her and risk her life at the same time?_ Still, here I am doing just that.

"I don't think I have the strength to stay away from you—even though I know I should."

Her eyes flash, and her hands ball into fists. Apparently, this is not the right thing to say.

"Stop it—that's exactly what I'm talking about. Stop trying to decide what's best for me. I know what I want. Do you?"

_How can she ask that? She's the _only_ thing I want._ Then I remember the doubts she expressed to Angela, and I realize she really has no idea how I feel.

"Of course. Yes. I want you, Bella, only you." I close the distance she's put between us, tugging on her clenched fingers until her hands relax into mine. "You are the only thing I'm ever going to want."

Her eyes are hopeful, but wary. She doesn't believe me.

"Then promise you'll stop trying to leave."

"I'll try." I know it's not what she wants to hear, but it's the most I can promise.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Right now? Yes."

She lets out a long sigh, and I unconsciously draw in her scent. With a hesitant smile, she says, "All right. Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I forgive you."

I abandon my resolve to keep my distance and lean down to kiss the flushed lips of the woman who has forgiven me, the woman who wants me—flawed as I am. She tastes wonderful—earthy and sweet—and for the hundredth time I thank whatever gods might be listening for bringing her to me. She feels relaxed in my arms, like a weight I didn't notice before has been lifted from her shoulders. As the kiss ends, she pulls away and wraps an arm around my waist, motioning with her free hand to the assembly of cherry trees around us and the shimmering water below.

"This is it—the place I wanted to show you."

There's a stone footbridge to the left, arcing across steel gray water. The trees sway softly to their own tune, delicate petals fluttering lazily to the ground. It's lovely. It suits her.

"It's my favorite place in Cambridge. I come here to read or sit and think."

I picture her under these trees in the sunlight, and it's the most beautiful thing I can imagine. It pains me to think it's something I won't ever get to see.

"Would you like to sit?"

She nods, and I lower myself to the ground next to her. We sit quietly, watching the soft lapping waves and the sprinkling of life around the river. Joggers cross the dirt path in front of us, and ducks confer noisily on the opposite bank. My mind turns to the previous year and the place I spent most of my time—a dirty shack, rotting and crusted with snow. I remember the broken man who sat there biding his time day after day, and I struggle to understand how he ever resembled the person I am in this moment. It's like looking at a poorly-rendered portrait of myself.

"Thank you for sharing this with me. It's perfect."

It feels like a privilege—like I've been introduced to a sacred space—and it makes me hungry for more glimpses into my love's psyche. I want to learn everything about Bella. Everything she can tell me about her life, her dreams, who she is. I've already learned a lot in these past twenty-four hours, but I want to know it all.

"Will you tell me about your family?" I ask, figuring it's as good a place to start as any.

She smiles. "Only if you tell me about yours, after."

"Of course."

"There's not much to tell," she begins, picking at a clump of grass. "It's just me and my folks—I'm an only child. They got divorced when I was young, and Renee and I moved to Arizona. I'd see Charlie for a few weeks a year, but aside from that, it was just Mom and me. Charlie's a small-town guy, and Renee's too much of a free spirit to be pinned down by that life. He's still there in Forks, fishing on weekends and eating cobbler at the diner."

"Your dad is Chief Swan?"

"How'd you know?"

"The picture on your dresser."

"Right, I keep forgetting you lived in Forks, too." She laughs. "I have a hard time picturing you there."

She studies me for a moment, and I wonder if she's imagining me at the Gas-n-Go or on aisle three at the J & P. I wish I knew what she was thinking.

"You know, I almost moved there my junior year."

If my heart could beat, it would stop with that revelation. She would have been there—_in Forks_—with me. _Three years. I could have had three more years with her. _I feel cheated and desperately sad at the loss.

"What happened?" I manage to choke out.

"Renee had just married Phil—he's a minor league baseball player—and he was traveling a lot. She had to stay home with me, and I knew she missed him." She pulls a dandelion out of the ground and begins plucking tiny yellow petals, one by one. "I was going to go live with Charlie so she could join Phil on the road, but the week before the move, Mom slipped in a puddle and broke her arm. With Phil gone all the time, she needed me to help with her recovery. By the time she was better, Phil had joined the Suns, and it just made sense for all of us to move to Jacksonville."

How much of my life has been decided by something as inconsequential as a puddle of water? I don't know how to feel about this. Should I mourn the missed opportunity, or be thankful Bella chose Boston, of all places, to go to school? What if I had decided on another stint at Stanford instead of MIT? How many other factors had to line up _just so_ to make sure Bella and I crossed paths?

"Why do you look so upset?" she asks, tossing aside the desecrated corpse of the weed.

"It scares me to think how much chance had to do with bringing us together. What if you'd decided to live in the Emerson dorms, or I found a place in the North End instead of Inman Square? What if we'd never met?" I feel my voice rising in panic, and my stomach tightens sickeningly. "I don't think you understand what my life was like before you came into it—how empty it was."

"Come here." She stretches her legs out in front of her and pulls gently on my shoulder, urging my head into her lap. I lower myself to the ground and rest on the pillow of her thighs. I'm staring up the billowed skirt of a flowering tree as Bella combs her fingers through my hair, and instantly I feel better.

"Do you know that Angela is the closest thing to a best friend I've ever had?"

I look up into her soft brown eyes and shake my head, uncertain where she's headed with this.

"Being with other people has always been difficult for me. I have a hard time making friends, I've never dated successfully, and even my relationship with my parents is completely skewed." Bella looks up, her eyes tracing the horizon. "I love them, of course. But I'm more of a mother to Renee than she is to me, and on the rare occasions when I'm with Charlie, it's like we're very well-matched roommates, not father and daughter. I don't know why, but I've never fit anywhere."

I ache for Bella, the loneliness she's describing all too familiar. She continues stroking my hair, sending calming waves throughout my frame. I could sit here forever, if she would let me.

"But when I met you, I had this feeling of finally being right in the world. I mean, yes, there have been some shocks, but even with everything we're both trying to adjust to"—she gazes down at me, a wry smile playing on her lips—"I still feel more at home with you, here in my lap, than I ever have—anywhere.

"I think there's a reason I met Angela and moved into her uncle's building. I think there's a reason you left your family to go to school all alone on the other side of the country. I don't know if it's fate or God or karma, but I believe we were meant to find each other. It's like I've been moving toward this moment my entire life."

As much as I want to lie here for eternity, I need to kiss Bella. Right now. I lift up and twist my body so I'm facing her, our hips touching. I cup her face in my hands and meet her mouth with as much force as I dare, willing her to feel the passion I feel, needing her to understand how much her words reflect my own feelings.

She's breathless and her heart is fluttering when I pull away. I fall into her warm gaze, my mind crying out in gratitude and hope. I have to tell her how I feel. I have to let her know what this means to me.

"Bella, I—"

_Stop!_

I recognize the word about to come out of my mouth, and I choke it off before it's too late.

_Did I almost say that? Did I almost tell Bella I love her? Jesus, am I trying to scare her away? _

She's waiting for me to finish, her eyes widening in expectation.

"I feel the same way. When I'm with you, I feel like I'm home." It's the truth, just not the whole truth.

Bella seems to deflate the slightest bit, but she recovers with a quick smile, and I have the insane thought that maybe she does want to hear me say the word. For a crazy moment, I imagine dual declarations of love—an impassioned embrace, promises of forever. The feeling is so strong, I almost reverse course and tell her how I really feel.

But I'm a coward—I can't risk it. It could ruin everything if I'm wrong. And there's still so much she doesn't know about me, so much I haven't had a chance to explain. It isn't fair to tell her how I feel until she understands exactly what she's getting into with me.

She reaches up to stroke my cheek, and I lean into her touch, closing my eyes. A relieved breath escapes me. Being with her feels so good.

"Would you like to come over to my place?" I ask suddenly, opening my eyes to gauge her reaction. "I mean, if you don't have any other plans?"

God, why am I so nervous?_ Because you just asked a girl to your apartment, and there's a good chance she thinks you're asking for sex._

"Just to talk," I add quickly, though I'm not sure that's really all I want to do. I know the hole I'm digging is just getting deeper, but I feel the need to clarify further, and I open my mouth to speak. Thankfully, Bella cuts me off.

"I'd love to see your place." She stands up and brushes the grass from her skirt, seeming to read my mind when she mumbles shyly, ". . . and we could do more than just talk." A flush spreads across her cheeks and chest.

I scramble to my feet, gaping stupidly, and feel my pants grow tight. I'm pretty sure if I could, I'd be blushing right now, as well. I can't think of anything to say, so I just clear my throat with a cough instead.

Bella must read my silence as rejection because she turns away, hiding her face. "I'm sorry, that was stupid—" She shakes her head in frustration and huffs. "We don't have to do anything."

"Wait, Bella," I say, taking her arm and turning her toward me. "Please, don't. You should never question that I would like to do more . . . than talk . . . with you. You just took me by surprise." She braves a glance at me, and I offer a smile. "In a good way."

"Yeah?" Her uncertainty breaks my heart.

"Of course, Bella. You know I want you—in every possible way. Why do you doubt that?"

"It's just hard for me to understand. You could have anyone . . . I—I still don't know what you see in me."

"Oh, Bella, for someone so smart, you can be amazingly dense sometimes." Her eyes widen in offense, and I quickly continue. "You have such a warped view of yourself. Don't you see how wonderful you are? Don't you see how lucky any man would be to be with you—how thankful I am you seem to have chosen me?"

"You don't have to—"

"Since you clearly don't understand, let me enlighten you about exactly what I see in you." I may not be able to tell her that I love her, but I can certainly tell her why I love her. "I see a beautiful and passionate woman who knows what she wants and pursues it with a single-minded intensity so fierce, it's frightening. I see a woman so brave she would allow a vampire into her home without a second thought and so trusting she'd let him stay with her while she sleeps. A woman so giving she always seems to consider other people's happiness before her own and so responsible she takes on commitments well past her duty to perform.

"I see a woman so stunning she can take my breath away with a single glance . . . so alluring I struggle to keep myself from ripping her clothes off and having my way with her every time we're alone."

Bella has stopped breathing, her eyes glassy and far away.

"Bella?" I ask, amusement ringing in my voice. She doesn't respond, so I run my hands across her shoulders and down her arms. "Breathe, love."

She inhales sharply, and her eyes focus on my face. A tremulous breath stutters out, and she shakes her head to clear it.

"Wow. You have a way with words, don't you?"

Uncontrollable laughter bursts out of me, and after a moment, Bella joins in. When we've both had a chance to sober, I take her hand and kiss her knuckles softly.

"So, would you like to see where I live?"

She smiles at me, and all is right with the world. "Wild horses couldn't keep me away."

* * *

**Bella**

Edward laces his fingers around a cup of coffee while I take an eager bite of my chicken wrap. Coffee, it seems, is his preferred instrument of public deception. He gazes at me over the cup, lifting it to his mouth every now and then in an imitation of drinking. He's very convincing.

Edward insisted we stop to get me some lunch before heading to his place, and I suggested Dado Tea as it was on the way to Inman Square. A few half-hearted bites of toast were the last meal I had, and it's nearly two o'clock—still, I didn't realize how famished I was until he mentioned food. It shouldn't surprise me that he's so attuned to my needs, but I take a moment to appreciate it anyway, smiling at him.

I like this place. With its Asian-inspired menu and decor, Dado Tea is more zen than Black Ground, and the serene atmosphere is great for studying when I've had enough of the library. I can be really particular when it comes to espresso, but I've seen the owner in action, and he makes a killer latte. I keep meaning to ask him how he makes those leaves in the foam.

Edward and I sit in comfortable silence while I eat, and I wonder if now would be a good time to ask about his family. All the tables are filled, and I realize there are too many people around for us to have a private conversation. It'll have to wait.

It's for the best, anyway. I'm having a hard time focusing on anything besides our walk along the river and the mind-boggling conversation we had there. I wasn't planning on spilling my guts that way—telling him he felt like "home", basically saying I believe meeting him was fate.

_What a crazy fucking thing to say on a first date._

But for some reason, this doesn't feel like a first date. This feels like finally being right after a lifetime of being wrong. This feels like everything I never knew I wanted. I'm even starting to believe he actually wants me, too.

How can I question it after that little speech he gave? My God, that was the scariest, most beautiful, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. It almost hurt to listen to him. As all of that perfection flowed out of his mouth, a part of me was unable to believe it—like I was waiting for him to take it all back.

But he didn't. He said those things. He seems to mean those things. And I don't understand it, but I'm going to stop questioning it. He believes I'm amazing—maybe he can believe strongly enough for both of us.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking."

His voice startles me, and I realize I've been staring at him for the past five minutes, grinning like an idiot.

_Smooth, Bella_.

"What's that?" I ask stupidly, trying to straighten my expression.

"You had this look on your face . . . I was wondering what was going through your head. It kills me sometimes that I don't know."

He looks guilty as he says this, and I get the distinct impression he's trying to tell me something. Or maybe _not_ tell me something.

But I can't tell him what I was thinking—honesty would be too embarrassing. I aim for evasiveness, instead.

"I'm sorry that you can't read minds, Edward," I tease, but he doesn't laugh like I expect. Instead, he abruptly stands—all humor gone from his eyes—and asks if I'm finished with my lunch.

_What the hell just happened?_

I look down at my plate and realize I've been finished for a while, so I just nod and try to figure out why he's suddenly so intent on getting out of here. My dishes are cleared before I know what's happening, and Edward is behind me, pulling out my chair and helping me up.

"Is everything okay?" I finally manage to blurt out, and he offers a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Of course."

He holds the door for me, and I walk out of the shop, feeling uneasy and completely confused. We turn left onto Hancock Street and pass a large playground full of screeching children. Edward's silence is unnerving, and I frantically scan our last conversation for clues.

Then it hits me. Edward is quiet. And pensive. Of course.

"What is it?" I ask.

He turns, surprised by the sudden break in silence. "I'm sorry?"

"You should just come out with it, now—whatever you're not saying that has you all twisted up in knots. You know you're going to tell me eventually. Don't hesitate—just rip the Band-Aid off."

He gives me a wry grin and shakes his head, and I thank the heavens that scowl is gone from his face.

"How do you know me so well? You always seem to understand just what I need."

"You think so?" I ask, a grin suddenly overtaking my face. "Well, sometimes you're pretty easy to read—especially when you get all broody and silent."

He takes my hand and raises it to kiss my knuckles, and I feel easier. He doesn't let go of it as we continue north on Hancock across Harvard Street. We walk another block in silence, and though he doesn't speak, I know he hasn't forgotten my question. He just needs to come around to the words in his own time. Still, I feel better when he says, "We're almost to my apartment. Would you mind if we talked about it there?"

"Not at all."

Edward leads me past the fire station and across the jumbled intersection of Hampshire and Cambridge Street before turning into an unmarked black door next to a vintage clothing shop.

"It's just up there," he says, guiding me by my back as I ascend a dark flight of stairs. There's only one door at the top, so I stand to the side as he takes out his keys and unlocks it. I take a step in and drop my bag, unable to move any further into the room.

Whatever I was expecting Edward's home to look like, this is certainly not it.

It's a large studio apartment—a single room with a kitchen and bathroom. The space is sharp and sleek—all gleaming metal, black leather, and lacquered wood. It's modern and minimal, but more than that, it looks completely uninhabited—like a page from a furniture catalogue. I can't see any hints of humanity here. No personal mementos, no scattered mail or out of place books, no pictures.

The only furnishings are a couch, a dresser, and a desk. The kitchen is unused, and the bookshelves are filled with books and CDs, but they look perfectly organized and untouched, like window-dressing. I struggle to find the word I'm looking for, and my heart sinks when I realize the space feels cold . . . lifeless.

"Edward?" He turns to me, and I search his eyes for the warmth I know is there. "How long have you lived here?"

He looks confused, but answers anyway. "Three weeks."

I feel tears prickle at my eyes, and I want to wrap him up in my arms and never let him go. I get it now. All the times he tried to tell me what his life was like before, how lonely he was. I see it here, in this sterile space—this room that could never be called a home. I see someone who doesn't care. Someone who has given up.

I reach up and touch his face, whispering, "I'm so sorry."

"Bella—?"

"I didn't believe you. When you said you were lonely, I didn't believe you—not really. I thought—" But it hurts too much to keep talking. I shake my head, and the unshed tears finally lose their grip, falling down my cheeks. An icy chill runs down my back, and I think my knees might give out. Before they do, Edward gathers me in his arms and moves us to the couch, cradling me in his lap.

"What's wrong? Please, love, I don't understand."

I nestle my head into his chest and breathe in a deeply. I want to explain, but how can I tell this man—this wonderful, amazing man—that this place screams desperation? How can I say I don't recognize the person that calls this space home? That the person who lives here is surely just the shell of a man?

He's not that man to me. To me, Edward is warmth and light and crackling fire. He's hope.

He's love.

As that startling realization takes hold, my tears flow more freely. My heart aches for this man that I love. I want him to be happy and whole.

All I can see here is emptiness.

"I'm sorry," I finally manage to say. "It's just—are you happy here? Do you like this?" I ask, motioning to the room.

"Happy? Living here?" He strokes my hair, brushing his fingers through it down to the tips. "I haven't really thought about it. Is that what this is about?"

I nod, certain I've just confused him beyond reason. I feel confused myself.

"I'm happy with you, Bella." His words melt some of my sadness, but there's still ice running through my veins, and I hate it. I want to be warm.

"It just feels so cold, Edward. I want to make it warm. Will you let me?" I know what I'm about to do is completely stupid. We've talked about this—we need time to work up to these things. But I don't care. I can't stand being in this space for another second without leaving our mark on it, filling it with life.

"I don't—" he starts to say, but I cover his mouth with mine and silence him.

It feels good to kiss him—to claim him—and to finally _know_ that he was telling me the truth. I really do mean something to him. I have to believe that. The juxtaposition of these two men—the one who created this space and the one in front of me—tell me it's true. He's different. I've changed him.

I move to straddle his lap and realize that Edward isn't kissing me back. His hands are on my hips, but they're not grasping me tight to pull me in, rather pushing me back the slightest bit. I know he could throw me off without a thought, so the fact that he doesn't heartens me. With no response from his mouth, I move my kisses to his face, his chin, his neck. I breathe in deeply through my nose, and his wonderful minty scent washes over me, fills my lungs with warmth. I want to taste him—see if his skin matches the cinnamon taste of his mouth.

With open-mouthed kisses, I chart a path from his collar to his chin, my tongue darting out to sample his flavor along the way.

_My God, yes!_

He tastes amazing. It's not what I was expecting—there's that hint of peppermint, a hint of honey, but there's something else. Something purely _Edward_. I go in for another taste, and I feel a low rumble in his chest. Unconsciously, I grind down on his lap, and the resulting flame roaring to life between my legs draws out a heavy moan.

In an instant I'm on the couch, alone, and Edward is standing a few feet away—keeping his distance. I blink a few times to get my bearings, and when I look up, his face is serious, dark.

_Oh, no. What have I done?_

I try to speak, but my throat is closed off. I feel so stupid.

_What was I thinking?_

I draw my knees up to my chest and cover my face with my hands, unable to look at him.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I'm so sorry," I sob. I want to scream at myself for crying again, but I just wrap my arms around my legs and bury my head in my knees.

"I told you never to apologize for that, silly girl," Edward says, and I feel the couch dip down next to me. He puts an arm around my shoulder and rocks gently, hushing me. After my sobs have quieted, we sit for a moment in silence.

"Do you think you can talk now?" he asks, as though afraid I might start crying again. I suppose it's a genuine concern.

I nod my head slowly.

"Will you please look at me?"

I groan. I don't feel brave enough to do that, but I comply with his request anyway. His eyes are full of worry and affection. He takes one of my hands in his and rubs soothing little circles in my palm.

"I would hate to set the precedent of telling you not to kiss me, but it does seem as though you were acting under duress. I would never want these lips"—he brushes a thumb along my bottom lip—"to kiss me because you're feeling pressured—even internally." He smiles at me, and I feel my breath come a little easier.

"Can you explain what you were thinking before you initiated that pleasant little surprise?" He's trying so hard to make me feel better about basically attacking him, and it makes me ache for him even more.

"It's really hard to explain."

"Just try, love. It was something about my apartment, right?" he coaxes.

I'm not sure what to say. It seems so stupid now. _You don't match your apartment_ is basically what it comes down to, and I can't say that.

When I find the words, they sound ridiculous. "It's just that everything is so sterile and neat—I can't explain it. It hurts to see you live like this."

"You're sad because my apartment is clean?"

"Yes?" It comes out as a question because, _seriously_, how could that be the reason for my breakdown? It doesn't even make sense to me.

"Oh."

Then Edward is gone from my side, and I'm caught in the middle of a whirlwind. Everything is blurred as air whooshes past my face, fluttering my hair. I hear soft little snicks all around me, like drawers being opened and closed—then rustling noises, like fabric and paper being shifted around. In just a few seconds, the tornado has calmed, and Edward is at my side again, as though he never left.

But everything is different. Almost every surface is covered in detritus of one kind or another. Books and CDs are scattered haphazardly on the kitchen counter, the desk, and the windowsills. Random pieces of clothing are slung over the back of the couch and lay in rumpled piles on the floor. Envelopes and crumpled pieces of paper litter the whole space. Most of the cabinet doors are open and gaping, and the dresser drawers hang from their frame—their contents slinking out as though caught mid-escape. As realization hits, I suck in a deep breath, and my jaw drops open.

_Edward just trashed his place for me_.

I'm frozen in shock as I take in the whole scene, and I can feel Edward eyeing me warily. For a while, I can't do anything but look at the mess around me and try to reconcile it with the sterile space moments before. When my eyes land on a pair of green boxers dangling from the ceiling fixture, I lose it. The spell is broken, and hysterical laughter bursts out of me like a bull escaping his pen. Edward cracks a smile, and I just stutter and choke and giggle. It feels absolutely wonderful.

I laugh for what feels like hours while Edward's smile grows brighter and brighter. Finally, I wipe the happy tears from my eyes and turn to him.

"Better?" he asks.

"Much." I lean into him and sigh. "Thank you."

"Had I known you were so drawn to filth, I would have refrained from showering all week."

His words incite another round of laughter, and this time Edward can't help but join in.

* * *

End notes:

So cherry trees actually bloom at the first sign of spring, not mid-summer, but I couldn't resist giving them this beautiful setting. It really is stunning in real life.

Story recommendation: "Girl Town" by BelleDean - Bella, Alice, and Rosalie are NYC roommates looking or more. A funny, moving, authentic picture of life in the city.


	11. Ch 10 Say It To Me Now

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own some really silly '80s dance moves.

You are my sunshine, **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**.

Thank you, kind readers for all the love you've been showing. It means the world to me.

Suggested listening:  
"Say It To Me Now" by The Swell Season  
"Tonight" by Lykke Li

* * *

**Chapter 10 - Say It To Me Now**

Cause I'm picking up a message Lord  
And I'm closer than I've ever been before

So if you have something to say  
Say it to me now

"Say It To Me Now" - Glen Hansard

**Bella**

"What am I thinking, _now_?"

I'm elbow-deep in espresso grounds, running the stupid machine through its last wash cycle before I can finish up and wipe it down. I still have sweeping and mopping to do, but everything else is pretty much done. Edward has taken up residence at his usual spot behind me—hands on my hips, trying everything in his power to distract me. He brushes his nose along my neck and places a not-so-chaste kiss there. My insides melt.

"Knock it off, or I'll never finish!" I say, swatting playfully at his head. "And answer the question."

He takes a step back but keeps his hands in place.

"You're thinking you hate cleaning this stupid espresso machine."

"Hey! You got it right!" I turn and give him a peck on his nose. "See, you _can_ read my mind." He doesn't look victorious at all.

"Bella, I don't have to read your mind to know that's what you're thinking. You say those exact words every time you do this."

We've been playing this game for about a week now. The first time I asked him that question was right after he'd gotten up the courage to tell me about his little gift, the day of the indoor tornado.

Since then, Edward has made it absolutely clear how frustrating it is that I'm the only person on Earth whose thoughts are entirely closed to him. Personally, I could have jumped up and down when he told me. There's no way I want to share all the embarrassing things I think about him. What would he think if he knew how desperately lost I am in his presence?

But I like playing this game. It's easier if I can joke about Edward's "quirks"—if you can call being a vampire a quirk. Having a super-human mind-reader for a boyfriend can really do a number on your sanity if you don't stop to find the humor in it all. And the game is a safe one, anyway, because in spite of what I just said, he's never actually gotten the answer right. He can't possibly get it right, because each time I ask him to tell me what I'm thinking, my heart is screaming _I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you so much._

And he has no idea.

I know I should tell him. Every time I think I can't hold back the words for a second longer, that nagging fear pops up telling me it's too soon, my feelings are stronger than his. In spite of the fact that he calls me "love" all the time, I have a hard time imagining it's more than an affectionate term of endearment—the turn-of-the-century version of "sweetie" or "honey". So instead of opening my fat trap to let him know how I feel, I ask him to tell me what I'm thinking. Maybe if he can guess right, I'll finally be able to admit the truth to both of us.

"Okay, done here!" I announce as I slip out of Edward's grasp to wash my hands and get the broom.

"You know, we could be out of here by now if you'd just let me help," he says while I'm in the supply closet. The boy is nothing if not predictable.

"Edward, no! This is my job. _My_ responsibility," I say as I return. "You're lucky Spencer even lets you stick around while I'm closing up—no one else is supposed to be here."

"You are so stubborn."

He's wearing an angry scowl, but I see through it—he can't hide the smile in his eyes. I lean the broom against the counter and bury my fingers in his hair, reaching up on my tip-toes to kiss him.

"Okay, Mr. Pot," I say as my heels hit the ground again. "You know, you look fantastic in black."

He smirks but stays silent. Smart. I return to sweeping up behind the counter, thankful Angela did the main floor for me before she left.

"It's not luck, you know," he mumbles after a moment, shifting his position so I can get the spot under his feet.

I look at him blankly. "What?"

"It's not luck that Spencer lets me stick around to _not_ help you out."

"Oh, really? Then what is it? Did you dazzle him with your crazy vampire eyes? Is he under your thrall?"

Levity, remember? Keeps me sane.

"No, I didn't 'dazzle' him—and you know I don't like that term—he just has an unhealthy fascination with me."

"Oh, Edward, does Spencer have a man crush on you? Is he going to take you to his next fanboy convention?" I tease. I gather up the pile I've been working on and bend down to sweep it into the dustpan.

He wrinkles his nose and pouts—he actually pouts!—before confessing, "You know, he's actually considering asking me to go with him."

I nearly drop the dustpan, I'm laughing so hard.

"Oh, my gosh! Not really?"

Edward just nods, looking extremely put out.

"So, I take it we're staying at your place tonight? Ang told me she invited Spence over to ours." I'm taking pity on him. Edward's evenings are much more pleasant when he doesn't have to contend with Spencer's thoughts all night.

"Undoubtedly."

I dump the contents of the dustpan and head back to the supply closet to pull out the mop and bucket. As the bucket fills with water and the pungent stench of ammonia swirls around me, I do a silent count in my head.

_Three. . . two . . . one._

"Okay, enough. Let me finish," he snarls.

_Right on schedule._

Like lightning, Edward takes the mop from my hand, cleaning about half the floor before I can get out an unconvincing, "Hey!"

In a moment, the floor is sparkling, and the clean and empty bucket is returned to its place.

"All done. Let's go," he says with a satisfied grin.

I glare at him, but my heart's not in it, and he knows. Chuckling softly, I shake my head.

"What am I thinking, _now_?"

* * *

**Edward**

_One hundred fifty-two . . . one hundred fifty-three . . ._

I'm busy counting freckles on Bella's stomach while her fingers weave through my hair. It drives me crazy when she does that—makes it difficult to keep to the task at hand—but it feels so amazing, there's no way I'm going to stop her. Bella's shirt is pushed up to just under her breasts, and I sneak a glance every now and then. Counting helps draw my attention away, but not much.

"I think I found a new one," I say as I lean down to kiss the virgin spot of skin.

"Admit it—you just want an excuse to kiss me," Bella says, propping herself up on her elbows to look down. "I don't see any freckles on my belly."

"Your eyesight isn't as good as mine," I retort, but she has a point. The minute gradations of color on her porcelain skin are almost too light for me to see. "Anyway, I don't need an excuse to kiss you. I'd be doing that whether counting freckles or not."

I'm determined to kiss every millimeter of Bella's skin. During the past week, I've made my way over a good portion of her frame, but there are still a few key areas that have been left unattended. My pants grow tight as I think about them.

Bella laughs and returns to stroking my hair, lying back to rest her head on the pillows of my new bed.

_Ah, my bed. Best. Purchase. Ever._

After our first night together, it was clear that Bella and I could hardly stand to be apart from each other, so it just made sense for me to stay with her while she slept. I don't mind staying at her home, but we both like the privacy of my place better. Without a bed, Bella couldn't easily sleep in my apartment, so I rectified that situation damn quickly.

_One hundred sixty-seven . . . one hundred sixty-eight . . ._

"Uh-oh. Missed this one, too." I peck a spot next to her navel and linger there to take a hit of her scent. I can't get enough of it these days. A scant two weeks ago, breathing her in was pure torture, but now it just reminds me how lucky I am to be this close to my love.

"When do Alice and Jasper get in?" She lifts her head as she asks, and the muscles in her stomach tense. I run my fingers along the raised plains.

"They're on the red eye. Should be in by six. Alice says tomorrow will be overcast, so you can sleep in while I pick them up from Logan."

"Oh, no, I'm definitely going to be up when you get back. I don't want your brother and sister meeting me for the first time with bed head and bad breath."

I'm still not certain about introducing Bella to my psychic sister and empath brother. Alice insisted, but I would have told her no if it weren't for Bella's obsession with getting to know my family. It was hard enough to turn down Bella's request to fly the whole family out—I couldn't deny her the opportunity to meet at least two of them. Since Alice is not only the pushiest but also has the best chance of helping us avoid any potential disasters, she and Jasper seemed like the obvious choice for our first house guests.

Esme will forgive me, eventually.

"I'm so excited to meet them, Edward!" Bella flops back on the pillow and wiggles around to demonstrate her point.

"Stop that—you'll make me lose count."

"You have perfect recall. You can't lose count." She's right. But all the wiggling is making her chest bounce around, and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to keep myself from groping her if she doesn't stop. Thankfully, her body stills.

After the rocky start of our first intense day together, we've (grudgingly) come to an agreement about our level of physical affection, and a strict above-the-waist policy is in effect. At the moment, Bella's boobs are the jackpot. The night is young—no way I'm going straight for gold just yet.

She takes a deep breath and grips my hair in her hands. The little tug feels heavenly.

"Do you think they'll like me?"

"Oh, love, they already think of you as family. Alice has been calling you her new sister since she saw our first kiss."

"Yes, but that's because of _you_—they have to accept me to make you happy. I want them to like me because of _me_."

"Let me get this straight. There are two vampires coming to stay with us tomorrow, and the only thing you're worried about is whether or not they'll _like_ you?" She doesn't answer, glaring at me in silence. "You are certifiable."

"_Edward_. Don't tease me—I'm nervous."

I climb up the bed and take her face in my hands. "Sweet girl, they will love you. How could they not?"

_I love you._

No matter how many times I think it, I can't seem to get the words out. I'm fairly certain she feels the same way, but what if she doesn't? What we have right now is so perfect—I can't jeopardize that.

Maybe it's because I spent decades resigned to the emptiness I felt, or the fact that I don't believe I can possibly deserve to feel anything as good as I do when I'm with Bella, but I can't help but think this happiness won't last. Like there's some unseen black cloud on the horizon just waiting to rain down on this amazing life we've created—and it terrifies me.

Will Alice and Jasper's visit be the catalyst for the thing that tears Bella and I apart? Will it be something else? Something as innocuous as illness or accident? Bella is so fragile. There are a million and one things that could take her from me, and the fear of that thought paralyzes me at times.

Like now.

_Say it. Tell her._

_But what if she's not ready, and I push her away? I can't risk it._

Bella's brown eyes are still shaded in worry, so I shove the thought away and try to erase the doubt marring my love's expression.

"Aside from the fact that Alice is already convinced the two of you are destined to be best friends, there is not a single unlovable bone in your body. They will adore you." I lean down to give her a tender kiss. "Just like I do."

She sighs, and her eyelids grow heavy. I roll onto my back, drawing Bella with me and tucking her into my shoulder. She fingers my t-shirt absently, and I can feel the heat of her hand through the thin fabric. From the way her teeth are latched onto her bottom lip, I know her concerns haven't evaporated just yet.

"I just—" she begins, uncertainly. "It's such a big deal, you know? I mean, you're breaking all of these rules for me, and I want them to think I'm worth it."

"Oh, Bella, my family has had to put up with my unhappiness for nearly a century. You cannot imagine how 'worth it' they think you are."

Great. Another reminder of just how precarious our situation is. I hate that she worries about the threat our relationship poses, but I had to let her know how important it was to keep the secret about my nature. She doesn't know all the details—simply that it's dangerous for any human to know of our existence.

"Will you please trust me? You have nothing to fear."

_At least not from Alice and Jasper, _I amend, silently._ The Volturi, on the other hand . . ._

She looks up at me through hooded eyes and nods, a small smile tipping the corners of her mouth. Her hand runs a lazy trail over my stomach, and she melts into my embrace.

"Thank you," she whispers, and I smile to myself.

We're quiet for a while, my fingers brushing through her hair. She sighs, and I'm afraid she's starting to fall asleep. I wouldn't usually mind, but with Jasper and Alice around next week, we're not going to have much privacy. I'm weighing the pros and cons of going in for a kiss when Bella surprises me, saying, "You know, we have something else really important to discuss."

"What's that?" I ask, my voice uncertain.

"What are you going to wear on your date with Spencer? I mean, you could go understated with a simple _Dr. Who_ t-shirt, or you could go all out and do the full cosplay—_aaaahhh_!"

Her squeals drown out the rest of the thought as my fingers find the ticklish spot just under her ribs. Her attempts to squirm away are futile, and her laughter fills the air like a strangled symphony.

"Stop! Stop, please!" she screams, and I flip her on her back, caging her in between my arms and legs, glowering down at her.

"You will never speak of that again, do you understand?"

Tears of laughter trail down her temples as her rapidly beating heart slows. She looks up at me with a defiant jut of her chin. After a moment, her expression shifts into mock-sympathy, and she brings a hand up to caress my cheek.

"Don't worry, Edward. I won't come between you two. I can see what you have is special."

"Oh, you are going to regret that," I growl, as I threaten her with wiggling fingers. She grasps at my wrists in an attempt to push me away.

"No! No! I'm sorry! Please, Edward!" My hands hover inches from her body, and she squirms in anticipation, bucking her hips up into me. A pulse of excitement flashes through me, and I freeze, taking a deep, steadying breath.

Bella seems to sense the sudden shift of my thoughts, and the panic slides off her face. She licks her lips, and her breath grows shallow. My knees are resting on either side of her hips, and I'm hovering above her pelvis. All it would take is one little nudge and we'd be pressed together. It would feel so good.

Bella is looking at me like I'm something delicious she'd like to taste, and damn me if I'm not feeling exactly the same way about her. Her hands still circle my wrists, and she pulls on them, encouraging me to rest my hands just above her shoulders. I follow her lead willingly, helpless against the draw of her lust-filled eyes. When I'm in position, she runs her fingers up from my wrists, exploring the lines of my forearms, the bend of my elbows, and the muscles corded around my upper arms.

My breath grows labored as she continues her slow study of my body, running her hands along either side of my ribs and down my waist. When her hands finally land on my hips, she watches me intently, tugging on them gently in invitation to meet hers. I don't budge.

"Bella . . ." She knows we can't do this. It's not safe.

"What? Your hands are way above my waist. We're not breaking any _rules_." She says the last word disdainfully.

"You know we can't."

But it's killing me—the beast inside is growling, _Why not, you asshole?_

"Come on," she urges in a sultry little purr. "All our clothes are on, and you've demonstrated _exquisite_ control this week." As though reminding me of exactly where I've exhibited said control, her nipples tighten under her shirt, and I have to close my eyes to the enticing image.

I gather myself and take a deep breath. When I open my eyes, I keep them focused on Bella's face.

"I'm sorry," I say with as much certainty as I can muster.

The light in her eyes dims, and she purses her lips together in frustration. She suddenly looks so sad. It breaks my heart.

"Please, Bella . . ." I plead, uncertain what else I can say. But she turns her head to the side, avoiding my gaze, and her hands fall from my hips in defeat. I can smell the salt of her tears, and I curse myself for making her cry.

_God, I wish I could just give her what she wants._

I wish I didn't have to worry about losing control. I've already risked so much—it's a miracle I didn't break her that first night. I could have crushed her so easily with just one wild thrust.

I lower myself onto the bed, lying on my side so I can look into Bella's face. When she closes her eyes to me, my stomach clenches. I cup her cheek in my hand, wiping her tears away with my thumb, and a muffled cry chokes out of her.

"Don't cry, love. Please. I can't stand it."

She really has no idea how true that is—I feel like a piece of me cracks apart every time her tears fall.

She burrows her head into my chest, and I'm not sure whether she's searching for comfort or privacy. It doesn't matter; I'll give her anything that's within my power. As my arms circle her, the fabric of my shirt dampens, and I feel the crack split a little wider.

"You know I want to—right, Bella? You know how much I want to be with you." She's silent, but her head nods against me.

"It's just too dangerous. I can't risk hurting you—not for some selfish desire."

Minutes pass, and still she says nothing, her tears bleeding onto my shirt like a Rorschach test. At last, she takes a deep breath, preparing herself. She keeps her face hidden against my chest as she begins.

"I just—" she chokes out and pauses. "I miss it. You made me feel—" Her words halt again, and I wait patiently for her to continue.

"You made me feel so good. _So good_. I know you feel bad about that night, but I don't. For me, it was the most amazing experience, and I'm terrified that I'll never get to feel _that_ with you again." She lets out a shuddering sigh and finally looks up at me. "I want to make you feel good, too."

"I can't, Bella, not like this. I could crush you."

"I know. I know." She looks defeated, resigned.

This isn't my Bella. My Bella is a fighter—she doesn't give up. I hate what this is doing to her.

An image flashes in my mind: Bella wild with passion, my hands exploring places I've never dared. My breath hitches, and everything else fades to black. I feel myself grow hard as the thought sinks its teeth in, latches onto me, and my imagination takes the fantasy to its natural conclusion. In my mind's eye, Bella looks completely satisfied, and I haven't lost control, haven't put her in danger. If I could pull it off, it would be amazing.

_Can I?_

_No. Don't even think about it._

_Bella would get what she wants._

_But will you have the strength to stop at that?_

_I don't have to take from her. I can just give._

_You're fucking insane._

_Don't be a pussy, _the beast interjects, and my ridiculous inner monologue stops.

"But maybe . . ."—I can't believe I'm going to say this—". . . maybe I could try something else." I have no idea what I'm doing. I just know I can't keep looking at the disappointment on her face.

She looks confused but slightly hopeful. A little of the light is back in her eyes, and it makes me want to see more. If I'm going to do this, I need to work up to it slowly. The beast growls at me to _just get started, already_ and for once, I don't disagree with him.

"May I please kiss you, now?"

She looks uncertain, but nods at my request. I lean down, and when our lips meet the tension flows out of me. If only I could always be kissing her, all would be right in the world. She sighs and opens her mouth to me, gripping my shirt to pull me closer.

For a while I just enjoy the feel of our mouths dancing together, revel in the heat of her body pressed to mine. Images from my fantasy keep flashing through my mind, trying to distract me. I can't even call it playing with fire—what I'm considering is like surfing a volcano. I push the image away and focus on the present.

Ever so slowly—as though she expects me to stop her—Bella's hand descends to the hem of my shirt, reaching underneath to touch my stomach. When I don't halt her progress, she becomes bolder, exploring my skin eagerly. Her hand teases the scattering of hair below my navel, and I tense slightly, hoping she doesn't try to dip underneath the waist of my jeans. I let out sigh of relief as she charts a path upward, fingers brushing along my stomach before sliding into the dip of my sternum. She pauses there—seeming to consider her next move—then her hand edges across my chest, grazing her fingers over the suddenly stiff peak of my nipple.

I pull away from Bella's mouth and suck in a sharp breath as an electric jolt flies through my body straight to my groin. I increase the space between our hips, fighting the overwhelming urge to grind into her.

I'm sitting up in a flash, removing the offending t-shirt and flinging it aside carelessly. I know she likes it when my apartment looks lived-in, and I try to make little messes for her as often as I can. I smile as I lie down, pulling Bella across my bare chest with her pelvis on the bed and her arms resting on my upper body.

In this position, both of my hands are free to explore her, and I take advantage, wrapping my fingers in her hair and drawing her down my mouth once again. Bella continues her leisurely perusal of my body, and her heart flutters in response.

Before Bella, I'd never experienced the uncontrollable urges of a typical horny teenager. My former life was full of thoughts of war and grand heroics. I had no time for girls. As a vampire, I've never been drawn to anyone enough to desire their touch, let alone act on that desire. But with Bella, I feel like an adolescent—tempestuous, emotional, and wild with need. It takes everything I have to reign in the overwhelming urge to just take what I want.

While I'm desperate to rip Bella's clothes off and dive into her, I satisfy myself by running my hands along her back. Soon, my fingers are teasing the skin under her shirt, and Bella stops her ministrations on my mouth to focus on the sensation. She rests her forehead against my shoulder as my fingers saunter up her spine, dance across her shoulder blades, and pinch the lacy fabric of her bra. The clasp pops open with a flick. I've become an expert at the single-handed release, and I can't help but puff up at my success.

Bella's breasts fall heavier against my chest, and I shudder at the greater contact. I've been restraining myself all night; I can't hold off any longer. Faster than I can think _fuck yeah, boobies,_ I've brought Bella up to her knees, her arms raised above her head as I divest her of her shirt and the scrap of fabric keeping me from my prize.

She giggles at the sudden change in position and wardrobe, but I'm too focused on the perfect set of breasts in front of me to offer an apology for my rough treatment of her. I place my hands on her back—her silken hair cascading over them—and bend down to take a rosy peak into my mouth. Bella squeals, and her hands fly to my head, encouraging me.

I need no more invitation. I suck and lick and tug until I feel her nipple tighten into an impossibly hard little pebble. Her scent eddies around us, confirmation that she's enjoying my ministrations as much as I am. The mewling sound she's making shoots straight between my legs, and I moan in response.

I kiss down the valley between her breasts before climbing her second peak and lavishing it with the same attention I gave the first. One of my hands moves to the front of her body, cupping the swell of her neglected breast and brushing across the tight nub with my thumb.

Until I met Bella, I had no idea I was a breast man, but I've since discovered that is most certainly the case. Perhaps I'd be more focused on other parts of her anatomy if I allowed myself the freedom to explore them, but I never do.

_But you've changed your mind on that front, haven't you?_

This is the point at which our make-out sessions usually end—halting suddenly as I try to control the fierce desire burning inside me. But I remember my plan, and I smile as I realize I don't intend to limit myself to worshiping Bella's breasts tonight. Tonight I'm going to make Bella truly happy. Tonight I'm going to leave her satisfied.

I feel her tense with anticipation of my inevitable withdrawal, and I'm thrilled that for once I don't have to see that look of sorrow on her face. With a final greedy suck, I release Bella's breast and draw upward to look her in the eyes.

Her lids are shuttered, and her breath is coming in heavy little pants. I chuckle because she's still so caught up in the moment, even though I've moved away. Then I realize my hand is still busy, and I can't help but observe for a moment. My eyes flick up and down, fighting to determine the more alluring image—my hand on her breast or the expression on her face. It's an impossible task, like trying to decide which Rembrandt is the most stunning.

As much as I'm enjoying this, I can't wait any longer. I slide both hands to her hips, silent encouragement for her to look at me. After a moment, she takes a steadying breath and opens her eyes. Her mouth shifts into a resigned purse, and I can tell how hard she's trying to not look disappointed.

"May I try something?" I'm suddenly nervous about this whole plan. _What if she doesn't want me to?_

Her brows raise in question.

"I'd like to touch you," I say, trying to sound confident and failing miserably. _Why should I be confident? I have no idea what I'm doing._

She smiles and says, "More than you already have?"

_Great. Teasing. Just what I need._

I steel myself and run a hand along the waist of her jeans, tugging a bit when I get to the button in front.

"Here."

Now she gets it. Her eyes widen in surprise, and her heart pounds against her chest. The sudden kick of adrenaline adds a spiciness to the aroma of her blood.

"May I?"

Her mouth is open, but she can't seem to form any words. Instead, she nods her head slowly, looking like someone who's inexplicably found themselves inside the lion's den. But I don't feel like predator. I feel like a fraud—a little kid parading around in his dad's shoes.

_Suck it up, Cullen. She's waiting_.

I think all of this would be easier if I could just be kissing her again, so that's what I do, leaning in to cup her face in my hands and pressing my lips to hers. She trembles against me, and I wonder if it's because of her nerves or my icy skin.

I want to tell her I love her. I want to thank her for trusting me with her body and her heart. I try to tell her all of that with my kiss as I draw her down to the bed. Her hands are around my neck, and they're burning hot. In fact, her whole body is suddenly aflame, and I break the kiss to see every inch of her skin blushing furiously.

I can't possibly be more nervous than her, and it makes me smile to know we're stumbling our way through this together. I peck the tip of her nose, hoping she reads the adoration in my eyes before I move my way south, kissing a trail from her chin to her bellybutton. It's a long, winding path, and I admit to taking a few unnecessary detours, but I feel no shame.

At last, I find myself at the foot of my bed between Bella's legs staring at the closure of her jeans. Bella's heart is beating so loudly I wonder if the neighbors can hear it, and her whole body is tensed as if ready for attack.

"Are you sure?" I say to the gleaming button fly, afraid to look up and see her reaction. "I can still stop."

"Don't you dare think of stopping," comes her husky reply, and I almost chuckle at her eagerness. But I'm not that stupid.

"Okay. I'm going to take these off now."

_Shut up and do it!_ the beast screams, and I know I've stalled as long as I can.

One by one, I release the buttons, and I'm met by a familiar scrap of black fabric. As I pull the denim lower on her hips, I realize it's the same pair of underwear I almost stole from her on that first day—the day I broke into her room—and for some reason knowing this makes me feel braver. I want to see this underwear on Bella. More importantly, I want to see it _off_ her.

I pull the jeans all the way down, leaving the panties in place for now, and enjoy the view of Bella's delicious, uncovered legs. I run my hands from her bare toes all the way up the smooth expanse to her hipbones, then I hook my thumbs into the teeny straps waiting for me. There's a freckle right at the point where her panties meet bare skin, and I can't help but place a kiss there.

_One hundred seventy._

A flood of Bella's aroused scent washes over me, and my groin aches in response. I feel like I might burst out of my pants.

_I haven't even seen her yet. How the hell am I going to get through this?_

But my thought is broken by a longing plea as Bella squirms underneath me.

"Edward . . . _please_."

Suddenly I'm back at Bella's window, watching her pleasure herself under the covers, listening to her plead with those same words, and seeing the look of pure ecstasy on her face.

_I want to be the one to put that look there. _

Before I can reconsider, her panties are gone, and Bella is naked.

On my bed. Waiting. For me.

_Wow._

_Oh, God._

_Wow._

There really are no words for the beauty before me. Which is fine because my throat is locked tight, and I couldn't talk even if I wanted to. For a moment I just look, afraid if I touch her she might dissolve into the ether like a mirage.

_She's . . . extraordinary. Unbelievable. Perfect._

I lift a shaking hand to her leg, and her hands tighten their grip on the blanket below her. Her eyes are squeezed closed, and every muscle is tensed in anticipation. I skim the flesh of her upper thigh, stroking softly to encourage her to relax. My hand finds her hipbone and skirts across to her abdomen, lingering at my new favorite freckle for a second before sliding lower to tease the dark curls at the apex of her legs.

I shift my position on the bed, turning my hand so my fingers face down. Ever so slowly, I move my hand lower and lower until at last, I'm gently cupping her soft mound. The air whooshes out of me, and Bella's shallow breath stutters and halts. Without warning, her pelvis lifts off the bed, pushing into my hand, and a low growl rumbles out of my chest.

Even here on her outer lips, Bella's skin feels wet and warm, and it's almost too much for me to take. The masochistic part of me wonders how it will feel when I explore further.

_No time like the present, _sneers the beast.

Bella's hips continue their persistent thrusts against me, and I press the heel of my hand against her, hoping I'm hitting the right spot. A low moan signals her approval. I dip a finger in between her folds, and Bella's moan turns into a keening sigh. Emboldened, I use more fingers to explore, and she starts babbling an unintelligible string of syllables as she writhes against my hand.

She feels absolutely extraordinary—smooth, slick, hot skin.

My God, the heat coming off her is blistering. I'm almost certain my fingers will have burn marks on them if I'm ever stupid enough to pull my hand away. As I continue stroking her, I make a resolution to stay here forever and always. Bella will just have to figure out how to go about her life with my hand between her legs. I sense hysteria start to take over and shake my head to focus on the task at hand.

In this position I can't see her as well as I would like, so I ease her legs apart and rest between them, inching down to the foot of the bed. With my free hand I part her outer folds. The sight that greets me ignites a fire in my belly that scorches a path through every limb, until I'm nothing but ash. Bella's beauty eclipses anything I've ever seen.

I graze a finger along the edge of her opening, and her hands fly to her breasts, squeezing and kneading much rougher than I would ever dare. I dip the finger in, and Bella sucks in a sharp breath. I freeze, terrified I've hurt her.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes! Yes, please," comes her desperate reply. "Don't stop."

_Okay, that's not pain she's feeling._

I brave a second finger, and she lets out a full-throated moan of pleasure. A wave of her arousal hits me, soaking my hand and filling the air with a sweet, exotic spiciness. I spare a thought for how good she would taste but push it away immediately.

As I explore further, her inner walls clench around my fingers, and I curl them up, feeling a little section of rough, spongy flesh. Bella grinds down on my hand and squeaks, "Yes, yes—oh, _God_."

I've never been more thankful for Emmett's uninvited anatomy discussions.

Suddenly remembering part two of that particular lecture, my eyes dart to the little nub of flesh above her opening, and I start to circle it with my thumb. Bella's stomach clenches, and her spine arcs up off the mattress before slamming back down. I freeze again, but before I even get a word out, she cuts me off.

"No—good. Good, good, good . . ."

We're working in rhythm now, my hand moving in time with the thrust of Bella's hips. Soft wet noises and rising moans dance along with her amazing scent swirling in the air. I breathe in deep, and my mouth waters, venom pooling in anticipation. There's no burn, just an overwhelming urge to sample the flavor, to taste that heady scent.

_Do it,_ taunts the beast. _ You know you want to. _

I try to ignore him, but he persists. _Just a little taste. It'll make her feel good._

I feel my inner skeptic roll his eyes, but I pay him no mind. The beast is making a lot more sense right now. With no further convincing needed, I lower my mouth and place a long, slow lick along her silky flesh.

_Oh, fucking hell! _

Her arousal is like a flaming dessert at a five-start restaurant—dangerous and seductive. She tastes sweet and spicy, like I'd imagined, but there are unexpected notes of something floral and peppery there, too.

It's not just the best thing I've ever tasted. I am certain—without a doubt—it is the best thing anyone has _ever_ tasted. In the history of man.

Bella's moans turn to squeals as I stroke her with my tongue, and she starts to clench around my fingers. She plants her feet on the bed and thrusts upward with her hips, every muscle straining against me.

With one more flick of my tongue against her tiny bundle of nerves, she explodes. She sucks in a breath and stills completely before falling over the edge with a deafening scream. I continue to stroke her while her muscles pulse their release. At last she goes quiet, her body falling limply to the bed. Somehow, I draw my mouth and hand away, placing an imaginary gold medal around my neck for my indescribable restraint. Bella twitches as I pull away, but that's the only movement she makes as I run gentle strokes along her legs, hips, and stomach.

Now that I've seen her naked, I can't imagine why I haven't insisted she walk around my apartment like this all the time. I know she can't go to work without clothes, but surely it's not too much to ask for her to continue in this vein while she's alone with me?

The goosebumps pebbling her flesh tell me otherwise, and I reluctantly pull the edge of the covers over her.

"Bella?"

Nothing.

"Bella? Are you okay?"

"Hmmmm . . ." she sighs, a smile teasing her lips.

"Do you need anything?"

When she starts snoring softly, I abandon my attempt to engage her.

I go to run my hands through my hair, but I'm hit by a wave of Bella's scent and realize my fingers are still coated with her. There's an insistent prodding in my pants, reminding me that while this beauty has been satiated, I most certainly have not.

I hate to leave her alone, but I need to take care of this or the rest of the night will be unendurable. I retreat to my bathroom, where a very long shower and three sessions with my hand finally relieve me of my need.

When I return to my love, I move her from the top of the covers and place her between the sheets. She doesn't stir.

"I love you, Bella," I whisper to my darling girl. "I love you more than you will ever know. I promise you'll hear me say it when you wake."

The night passes slowly but happily, as I have an enticing new collection of memories to keep me company.

* * *

Please be kind. Lemon writing is new for me. I also want to give you a little heads-up for the next chapter: angst ahead. *hiding now*

Story recommendation: "No Ordinary Proposal" by Twilover76 - College-bound Bella is presented with an offer she can't refuse by business mogul Edward. This story is just getting on its feet - get in early!


	12. Ch 11 Bloodletting

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own my fearful anticipation.

A very warm welcome to **AmeliaKBedelia**, my new pre-reader. Along with **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**, I am in very good hands.

Suggested listening:  
"Borrowed Time" by A Fine Frenzy  
"Bloodletting" by Concrete Blonde  
"Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" by Florence and the Machine

* * *

**Chapter 11 - Bloodletting**

This is a gift, it comes with a price  
Who is the lamb and who is the knife?  
Midas is king and he holds me so tight  
And turns me to gold in the sunlight

And in the spring I shed my skin  
And it blows away with the changing wind  
The water has turned from blue to red  
As toward the sky I offer it

"Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)" - Florence and the Machine

**Bella**

I shift in bed, feeling soft morning light caress my face as the fog of sleep dissipates. I was treated to the most wonderful dreams all night—most of them involving Edward's mouth and hands—and I feel the evidence of them tingling between my legs.

I stretch, enjoying the slight tenderness of my muscles. My smile grows wider as I realize the dreams I had weren't merely dreams, and I'm suddenly anxious to see Edward. I pat around the mattress, but it's empty, and I wonder where he's gone.

"Are you quite done?"

The feminine voice startles me, and my eyes fly open as I twist and sit up. The cold black eyes of the woman standing at the foot of Edward's bed hold me captive.

"Would you mind covering yourself?" she says with a disapproving purse of her lips.

_What the hell?_

She raises an eyebrow, and her gaze falls to my chest . . . which is completely bare.

_Holy shit!_

I pull the sheets up as I wonder what it is about vampires catching me naked in bed. That thought stops me short as I register this pale beauty with the predatory glare of a lioness is—of course—a vampire. She doesn't seem as warm as I was expecting, and our first encounter is totally embarrassing, but I can't help it. I'm really excited to meet her.

"Alice?" I say with a smile. "I'm sorry, I must have overslept. I meant to be up before you got here—"

Then I remember the events of the previous evening, and I realize I was a little too out of it to do anything as mundane as set an alarm. My face burns with the memory, and I'm sure a blush is flaming across my cheeks.

"Are you always this sniveling? How does he stand it?" Alice flicks her long strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder as she glares down at me.

"What?"

Surely, I didn't hear her right. Edward told me Alice likes me; he told me I had nothing to worry about. But this woman obviously loathes me. I can feel the hatred radiating off her. Is it because I'm naked in Edward's bed? Is she just being protective of her brother? I don't understand.

Tears start to prickle my eyes, and I just want her to go. I'm naked here—literally—and I need some time to gather myself. I guess there was a reason Edward seemed so reluctant to introduce me to his family, but then where is he? Why did he abandon me to deal with Bitcherella all on my own?

"Wh-where's Edward?" I curse myself for sounding so meek. I don't want to give any more ammunition to this stupid, judgmental vampire bitch.

"Edward isn't here, little mouse."

She circles the bed, closing the distance between us. Even through my hurt, I can't help but feel jealous of how graceful she is. She practically floats—and she's in six-inch heels. All the anger and resentment slowly building in me turns to cold dread with her next words.

"And I'm not Alice."

* * *

**Edward**

I check the flight tracker one last time and decide I can't put it off any longer. The flight from Anchorage will be arriving soon, and I still need to get my car out of the garage. Bella sighs as I kiss her cheek and carefully climb out of bed. I was hoping we could talk before I left, but she looks so peaceful, and I know she could use the sleep.

"I love you," I say as I close the door and head down the dark flight of stairs into the quiet, cloudy morning.

It's a Monday, but the sun is just up, and it's still a bit early for most commuters to be out. Once I'm in the Volvo, it doesn't take me long to make my way through Cambridge, and I'm nearly at the tunnel into Boston when my phone rings.

_Alice, probably complaining I'm late._

"Yes, dear sister? Can't you see—"

"Turn around!" Alice screams at me before I can finish. "Turn around right now!"

"What—?" I ask, but I'm doing as she says, the panic in her voice urging me into action. A few cars honk as I execute a swift u-turn on the bridge in front of the Museum of Science, but I'm not in any real danger of hitting anyone.

"You have to get home! I'm so sorry, Edward. I didn't see it—I didn't know."

"Alice, calm down. What are you talking about?" She's not making any sense.

"Bella! She's after Bella!" Her voice is a shrill whistle, and I'm starting to panic now. The steering wheel bends under my grip.

"What do you mean, Alice? _Who's_ after Bella?"

_Is this a joke? This can't be happening._ I feel hot rage flow through me, and I have no idea where to focus it.

"I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. I shouldn't have told her, but I didn't know. I had no idea she felt so strongly." Alice is babbling, and suddenly I know exactly where to direct my rage.

"What the fuck are you talking about, Alice? Start making sense or I swear to God—"

"Tanya!" she screeches. "Tanya fucking lost it! She knows about you and Bella, and she wants to—she's going to—"

"Don't fucking say it!" I can't let her finish the thought. If she finishes the thought, I'm done for. I won't be able to continue, won't be able to function. And I need to get to Bella—that much is clear.

I speed down Cambridge Street, blowing through red lights and swerving around anyone stupid enough to get in front of me. I need to hold it together. I need to get there.

"How much time do I have? Is she with Bella?"

Alice seems to have calmed down some, and she's finally able to give me a straight answer. Not that I like what I hear.

"Not much. She's there now."

An inhuman growl roars out of me.

"We'll be there soon, Edward. I promise. Jasper's getting a car for us now. Just—" she cries out and moans. "Take care of her."

I don't know if she's talking about Tanya or Bella. As I slide into a vacant spot in front of my building and fly out of the car, I know I intend to take care of them both.

* * *

**Bella**

"And I'm not Alice."

_What?_

_Oh, fuck._

_No. No, no, no, nonononono!_

_I'm alone with a vampire and I have no idea who she is and she obviously hates me and, oh God, I'm going to die._

"So the pixie is coming for a visit?" the ice-cold not-Alice says thoughtfully. "Well, I'll just have to work a little faster."

Work on what? I wonder, as my heart pounds out of my chest. I just want to burrow down into bed and go back to sleep.

_Why can't this be a dream?_

But that would be too easy, and there's no way I'm getting off easy. The creature in front of me has the look of a woman scorned, and I can only imagine how that's going to end.

_I knew it. I knew this thing with Edward couldn't last. I've got nothing on this gleaming golden devil. I'm not the girl who gets to keep the handsome prince. I'm the fucking handmaid who gets to wash Cinderella's fancy new underwear._

I consider the she-beast eyeing me hungrily.

_Or maybe I'm the main dish at Cinderella's wedding banquet._

I almost laugh at the thought.

Something inside registers creeping delirium, and I struggle to shake it off. If I'm going to have any chance of surviving, I need to keep it together. Somehow, I find my voice.

"Who are you?"

If I keep her talking, maybe that predatory look in her eyes will fade. She's hovering at the edge of the bed, and I feel the rage flowing off her.

"Fuck you," she sneers. _Guess she's not in the mood to talk._

"You don't get to ask me questions." _Correction—she's just not in the mood for _me_ to talk._

"I haven't had a human in a while, but I think it might be worth it to go off my diet just this once."

She reaches out, and before I know what's happening, I'm in the air—naked—dangling with the Ice Queen's hand wrapped in a crushing grip around my neck. I twist and turn and kick my legs out, but I can't get any purchase. My fingers scrabble at her cold hand, but it's like scratching at granite, and nothing I do helps.

Her eyes narrow into tiny slits, and she looks me over. My skin crawls. My lungs feel like they're going to collapse, and there's a strange rattling wheeze coming from my throat. My heart is pounding much too fast, but there's no blood getting to my brain.

"Years! I waited for him to come around for years! And he couldn't even throw me a crumb. Then you come along and bat your little eyes and spread your little legs, and in less than a week, he's falling over himself to say he loves you? It should have been me!"

I can't process what she's saying. Edward doesn't love me. He's never said any such thing.

But none of that matters because I can't breathe, and I'm going to die. Just as my vision starts to blur, she throws me down on the hardwood floor, and I land with a sickening crack.

When I was little, Renee made me take ballet lessons, which only ended once I proved my immeasurable clumsiness by slipping during a recital and fracturing my tailbone. I cry out as the familiar pain shoots up through my spine and down my legs, and I roll to my side to relieve the pressure.

Through my tears, I see the Ice Queen start to pace.

"I'd understand if he just wanted to get his rocks off. I get that. Have a little fun with the human, then toss it away. But love? _Love?_ Look at you! You're nobody! You're nothing!"

All of my worst fears are being spewed out of her toxic mouth, and even as I want to scream at her to shut up, tell her that she knows nothing about me, a small part of me is nodding in agreement.

_I'm nobody. I'm nothing._

She bends down and wrenches my hair in her fist, pulling me close enough that I can smell her cloyingly sweet breath. It hurts to meet her black-eyed gaze.

"What is it about you? What does Edward see in a mousy, little, piece-of-shit human like you?"

She seems to genuinely want to know, and I'm about to tell her I have no idea when her head shoots up, ending the moment. It's like she's listening for something, and suddenly I register the sound of squealing tires outside. When her gaze returns to me, something has softened. She still has the cruelest face I've ever seen, but there's a sadness around her eyes, and I fight the urge to ask her what's wrong.

"Guess our time's up."

_I don't understand. What's she talking about? Why does she look so . . . resigned?_

Then hope flutters through my veins like a million butterflies as I realize the meaning behind those squealing tires. Edward must be here.

_Oh, thank God! He'll stop her! He'll save me!_

I can almost see the door bursting open, can almost feel my love's cool breath against my cheek as he holds me and tells me I'm safe, tells me he'll never leave my side.

But it's not Edward's breath on my skin. It's _hers._ She brushes her lips against my ear and my stomach twists and turns, wringing terror and hope out of me in a tangled mass.

"I'm going to do you a favor," she whispers seductively, and tremors skitter up my arms. "Don't worry—I know better than to expect you to thank me for it."

Before I can even think to ask what favor this harpy could possibly do for me, my world erupts in pain, and I scream. Through the haze of fire burning in my neck, I think I hear her say, "Goodbye, little mouse. Take care of him."

Then there's nothing but animalistic roars and ripping sounds and hurt so deep I can't possibly recover.

* * *

**Edward**

After twenty minutes of screaming, Bella loses her voice. She's still wracked by choking sobs and cries of anguish, but they're mostly silent now, her vocal cords ripped and shredded by unnatural abuse.

All the while, her frantic eyes are pleading with me, begging me to make the pain go away, but there's nothing I can do. So I hold her and rock her and continue to promise her it will be all right, even when I can see she no longer believes the lie.

The dissected remains of Tanya are strewn around us, and I have the mad thought that perhaps Bella will appreciate the mess I've made.

_Do you see it, baby?_ I think, kicking the decapitated head at my feet. _I did it for you._

I almost laugh. But Bella thrashes in my arms, and I know laughter has no place here.

As the light in her eyes dims and she gives in to the brutal torment of the venom burning through her body, something inside me breaks—something irreparable—and I realize it's my faith in myself. My belief that I am good for this woman. My hope that I could ever deserve her.

Her eyes close and her body goes still, but I do not delude myself that she is at peace.

She may never be at peace again.

I just want to make it stop.

_How can I make it stop?_

I wonder if it's too late—is Bella's soul already damned, or does she have a chance? _What if I don't let the change complete itself? What if this place burns down with us in it? Will her soul be safe? Will I have finally done something right for her?_

I hear them well before they enter, and I hiss to let them know no one is welcome here. I have plans, and they do not include my brother and sister.

"_No!_" Alice screams as she sees my decision. "Edward, you can't. Please, that's crazy!"

"What's wrong, Ali?" Jasper asks, and I growl at them both—daring them to come closer.

"He's going to kill her. He's going to set fire to the apartment and let it burn around them!"

"She's already _dead_, Alice!" I roar. "Just leave!"

I feel a wave of calm wash over me, smothering me like a wet blanket, and I push it off.

"Do that again, and I will rip your fucking head off, Jasper."

_Look, man, you have to calm down. Everything's going to be all right._ Even from inside his head, Jasper's slow, Southern ease makes me want to punch him in the face.

"Edward, please, listen to me." Alice takes a step into the room, but when I growl, Jasper throws a protective arm in front of her. "Fine. If you don't want to listen, look. See what I see. It'll be okay."

I try to block her out, but Alice is projecting with everything she has, and I can't help but step into her vision.

_I'm outside of myself—watching from the far corner of the room. Bella and I are in a cabin. I don't recognize it, but there are touches of Esme's style throughout. We're lying side by side on our bed, and Bella is stroking my face. I make a joke, and in an instant she has me pinned, helpless against her superior strength._

_She's absolutely stunning._

_There aren't many changes, perhaps a smoothing of her flesh—no sign of the freckles or laugh lines I love so much. Her hair looks richer, her skin paler. And her eyes are deep orange, halfway between the ruby of first change and the amber they will later become. But what I notice most clearly is her smile. It's bright and unrestrained and more confident than I have ever seen in her human life._

_She's happy. Truly happy. And so am I._

The air shoots out of my lungs, and I grip Bella tighter to my chest. I meet Alice's intense gaze and dare her to lie to me.

"Are you sure, Alice? You have to be sure."

She smiles sadly and says, "Yes, Edward, I'm sure. You were always meant to have her like this. And she'll be happy. I promise."

A sudden anger wells up inside me. "You didn't know about Tanya? Tell me you didn't make this happen—"

Her eyes are wide and shocked, and once again, Jasper positions himself in front of his mate.

"No!" she says. "No, Edward, I had no idea. When I saw what she decided to do, I couldn't get to you. We were still on the plane."

Alice's mind flashes to a snowy cliff in her memory.

_She and Tanya are watching the others take down a herd of elk in the valley below when a vision hits her. In it, I'm telling Bella I love her, and she's crying as she says it back to me. Back on the cliff, Alice shares what she sees, and Tanya goes silent, her eyes cold. She makes an excuse and wanders into the night._

"She left that night—a week ago. Told the girls she was going on a hunting trip, might bring back a new man. I didn't think anything of it."

Alice braves a step into the room, and I let her. "I don't know how she got around me, but she did. She must have saved the decision for the last possible moment."

But I know how she did it.

"She used to practice. Remember her games?" My voice is hollow. I realize that surely Tanya must have played me as well. She couldn't have timed this the way she did without being incredibly close. I should have heard her thoughts, but I didn't.

I picture her face as I stormed into the room, ready to destroy the threat to my love. She looked resigned, standing over a bleeding Bella with red-stained lips, and I howled in fury. She didn't fight as I launched myself at her—just let me rip and shred and tear.

_Why did she do it? What was the point?_

But I don't spare another thought for the vampire who's now scattered around me. She doesn't deserve a moment more of my time.

Jasper takes an appraising look around, and instantly I see the soldier-statistician in effect.

"We need to take care of this," he says, toeing a limb. "And we have to get Bella somewhere remote for the change. She can't wake up here—it'll be a massacre."

"We can't go to Alaska," I say. "Not enough time, and I'm not sure I should be around the Denalis right now."

"Forks," says Alice. "We'll all go to Forks."

I'm not letting go of Bella, so Alice and Jasper handle Tanya and arrangements with the family. They take a trip in their stolen car, bringing the loose pieces of the bitch with them. Before they leave, Alice drops a simple blue dress next to me.

_You should put this on her._

I'm confused for a moment, then I look down at Bella. _Jesus, I didn't even realize she was naked._ I don't know where the dress came from, but I appreciate it nonetheless. I dress Bella and clean the ugly ragged wound on her neck. Until this moment, I didn't notice how close I was to her blood.

While they're gone, I ponder what to do about Bella's life here. Her absence won't go unnoticed, and now she's been linked with me. My family will be in danger if we both disappear, and I can't let that happen. If nothing else, I need to assure Bella a safe space after the change.

I know what I have to do, but I can't bear to leave my love's side. I don't know how I'm going to manage it. After an hour of stalling, Alice finally steps in.

"You have to go now, Edward." _Huh. When did they come back?_ "She'll be leaving for work soon, and you have to get her alone. We have a long drive ahead of us; we can't wait another day."

I lay Bella on the bed and hold her hand. She looks so peaceful, but I know the fire is still raging inside her. I hope she'll forgive me for leaving her.

"I'm sorry, love. I have to go. I'll be back as soon as I can, and then I promise I won't ever leave your side again."

I kiss her temple and finally release her hand.

As I turn to address Alice, she cuts me off.

_Of course. We'll take care of her_.

I'm out the door before I can reconsider, and in minutes I'm climbing the stairs to Bella's apartment. Angela answers when I knock, and she reads the distress on my face—concern shrouding hers in return.

Angela is the only one home; Spencer must have gone.

"Can we talk?" I ask, my voice scratchy and tired.

"Yes, of course. Is everything okay?" She notices Bella's absence, but doesn't comment.

I don't bother with any preamble. Angela, of all people, doesn't need me to ease her in.

"We have to go. Bella and I. We have to leave today."

"What? What's wrong?" She's shocked, but perhaps not as much as she should be.

"I can't tell you that. You just have to know that she's safe, and I promise I will take care of her."

"I don't understand, Edward."

"I know." I glance around the room, looking for anything Bella might want me to take. "Will you help me? I think there are some things Bella will want. I'll need a suitcase. Maybe a box."

Angela follows me into Bella's room, and I grab her t-shirt quilt along the way.

"Edward, you gotta give me something. Please—I don't understand."

I don't pause as I rifle through Bella's closet and find what I need. A huge floral suitcase is on the top shelf. I open it up on the bed and start filling it with clothes, pictures, and personal mementoes. When the bag is full, I zip it closed and turn to Angela, studying her face.

Her mind is full of questions, but there's no fear. No mistrust. I level my gaze at her.

"You know we're different, Angela. My family. You've always known." It isn't a question.

Her eyes grow wide, and her mouth drops open. Slowly, she nods her head.

"Bella's going to be different now, too."

In her mind, she's chanting _Oh my gosh oh my gosh oh my gosh_ over and over, but she says nothing.

"There are people that will hurt you if you say anything about this. Do you understand?"

Her brows furrow in fear, but it's not directed toward me. She nods again.

"When I leave, go about your day like normal."

_Is he kidding?_

"When you come home from work tonight, I want you to call the police. I want you to tell them your roommate is missing. She didn't come into work today, and you haven't seen her since you left the shop last night."

She starts to ask me a question, but I cut her off.

"You need to tell them about Bella's boyfriend—Edward Masen. Keep as close to the truth as you can, but don't mention Forks or the name Cullen. Understand?"

She chokes on the word, but finally gets it out. "Yes."

"Make sure Spencer understands, too."

"Okay."

If it were anyone else, I would worry. But I know Angela will do what I've asked. Her inner monologue rarely diverges from her outer expression.

"Bella is counting on you. She loves you, Angela. I know she'll miss you."

I walk out of the room with suitcase in hand before Angela has a chance to respond. I'm afraid if she keeps looking at me like that, I'll be tempted to tell her everything.

"Edward, wait!" She's finally found her voice.

I pause at the front door and turn.

"Will I ever—will I see her again?"

My answer echoes into the quiet room as I close the door behind me.

"No."

I hurry away, trying to block out the painful sound of Angela's anguish.

* * *

When I return to my apartment, Alice and Jasper have packed everything and loaded what they could into my car. The rest is on its way to Forks by overnight delivery.

Since I registered for school as Edward Masen and my lease is in the same name, there would be no link to Edward Cullen of Washington. If the investigation goes anywhere at all, it won't lead to us.

I'm relieved when the details are taken care of and I can finally focus on Bella once again. I carry her down to my car and sit her on my lap in the back seat. Alice drives west out of town and doesn't stop until we reach the dark green forest and ocean air of the Olympic Peninsula.

* * *

**Bella**

Burning.

I'm burning alive, and nobody's putting the fire out.

_Why won't they help me? Why won't _he_ help me?_

There's somebody with me, but I can't remember his name. I can't remember anything but the pain—acid running in my veins, razors slicing through soft tissue.

On and on it goes, longer than life, longer than time—eternity.

Civilizations rise and fall in the space of a single excruciating heartbeat. Stars are born and collapse during one agonizing inhalation. Universes collide and disperse in the time it takes the searing fire to move—cell by cell—from my neck to my shoulder.

_Please!_ I scream inside my head. _Please, help me! Somebody make this pain go away!_

But pain has no meaning.

Pain is just a word, and this—this feeling—is so much more. This is unimaginable horror. This is blind desperation. This is bleak, suffocating hopelessness.

There's something I need to remember. Something important. Something about love.

But that's another meaningless word in a mind full of meaningless words.

I pick at the thought, trying to unearth it, even as the inferno blazes on—razing every inch of my body. Turning me into blackened, barren earth. Smoldering cinders.

If only I could remember about love, I could temper this pain. I'm not stupid enough to think the raging fire will ever go away, but maybe I could steal some of its air. _Wouldn't that help?_

But love is nothing. Love can't save me. Love is ash in my throat, choking me.

When that realization hits, I finally understand.

_I'm in hell._

There's no other explanation. You'd think it would make it easier to know why I hurt so much, but it doesn't.

It only makes it worse.

* * *

**Edward**

We reach Forks in a little under three days. Bella doesn't stir, but I can read every painful flame raging through Jasper. The thoughts coming from him are almost debilitating. I can't imagine what it's like to actually be feeling what he's feeling. I refuse to think how much worse it must be for Bella.

Esme's waiting on the front porch when we pull up, and if I didn't know better, I would swear I see tears in her eyes.

"Oh, my baby boy," she sighs. "I'm so sorry."

Carlisle comes out to help with the bags, and he tips his head in a silent, grim hello. I pretend not to notice when Alice and Jasper escape into the woods as fast as they can.

"We've made your room up for you," Esme offers. "There's a bed for her."

She looks like she wants to hug me; I'm not sure how I feel about that. I want it too, but I don't think I deserve any comfort right now.

"Don't be silly," she says, as though reading my mind. "Get over here."

Bella is still cradled in my arms, so Esme wraps herself around me and my love and sighs.

"She's beautiful, Edward," she says, pulling away to examine Bella. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but I'm just so happy you found each other."

I can't get my voice to work. I offer a silent nod and head into the house.

Emmett and Rosalie are waiting in the dining room. Rosalie's expression is tight, but she knows better than to say anything out loud right now.

Emmett is not so smart. He smiles and booms, "Welcome home, oh moping one! Look, I know you have to play the martyr right now, but I can't wait to meet my new little sister. I bet she's gonna be a firecracker!"

"Shut up, you idiot," Rosalie mutters, and for once, I couldn't agree with her more.

I retreat to our room with Bella, and the family leaves us alone for the duration of the day. Sitting with her in my lap on our new bed, I hope she won't mind that I think of all this as ours.

As dawn arrives on the third morning, I start to notice little changes to Bella's exterior. Her lips plump, her skin pales, and her hair turns from a lovely deep brown to rich mahogany. I remember every beautiful inch of her as she was, but I can't help but fall in love with this new Bella, too. I just love her—human, vampire—no matter what.

Alice knocks on our door and peeks her head in.

"It's going to happen soon. You might want to put her down."

I almost hiss at her, but I know her heart is in the right place. She's seen how stressful it will be for Bella to wake in my arms, and while it hurts, I know I have to do what's best for her.

Alice retreats down the hall, and I can sense all of my family hovering. They want to give us privacy, but they're so curious. I wish I could block out their voices; I've forgotten how noisy it can get. The silence of Bella's mind has been such a relief for me, and I didn't ever truly appreciate it.

I was too busy wishing I knew what she was thinking to be thankful for the beautiful quiet.

Bella's heartbeats are winding down. I've been counting them for a while, and they're getting further and further apart. At last, her stuttering pulse stalls and stops completely, and I feel the ions in the air shift.

With a start, Bella opens her blood-red eyes, and nothing is ever the same again.

* * *

*peeks in*

Are you all still with me? Just like Edward would do, I want to remind you all to breathe. I'll be honest, it's going to get worse before it gets better. But I am a firm believer in the happily ever after, and I promise things will not always be this bleak.

Story recommendation: This week I suggest you read something totally silly. How about "The Unlikely Meeting" by giselle-lx? A little Twilight/50 Shades crossover that will have you belly-laughing in no time.

Thanks for sticking with me,

moirae


	13. Ch 12 Cinder and Smoke

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own my own teeny tiny corner of the world.

A note to my lovely readers: Thank you so much for all of your amazing reviews on the last chapter. I usually try to respond to each one, but I have been a total failure at it this time around. By the time this posts, it will be my fourth chapter in three days, so I've been a bit busy. A few presents for you, instead.

If you haven't seen it, I added a **Shelter Outtake** to my list of stories. The first is a little piece from Angela's POV after Edward left her apartment in chapter 11. Perhaps more to come later.

I've signed up for Project Team Beta's **Smut University** **2012**, which should be a blast. My first story assignment is up under my profile. These will probably be short, un-beta'd, and dirty. If you like that kind of thing, check it out.

Finally, I'm posting chapter 12 a bit early, just because I feel like it! (For you new folks, I usually post Mon and Fri morning.)

I love you all! Thank you for the wonderful support. And I remind you - it get's better!

Kisses to **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**, my partners in crime. Without them, these lines would be a fine mess.

Suggested listening:  
"Cinder and Smoke" by Iron and Wine  
"Blinding" by Florence and the Machine  
"Roads" by Portishead

**Chapter 12 - Cinder and Smoke**

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone  
No more calling like a crow for a boy, for a body in the garden  
No more dreaming like a girl so in love with the wrong world

And I could hear the thunder and see the lightning crack  
And all around the world was waking, I never could go back  
'Cause all the walls of dreaming, they were torn wide open  
It finally it seemed that the spell was broken

And all my bones began to shake, my eyes flew open

"Blinding" - Florence and the Machine

**Bella**

I'm splitting at the seams. I feel it—limbs ripping, muscles tearing, bones grinding to meal. The pain's been here so long, and I'm not even sure where "here" is. I'm not sure what "I" am.

Is there a "me" anymore?

How can there be a "me" when all that I am is fire and agony and despair?

I'm just a receptacle, a vessel. My job is to carry the hurt. And I perform my task so well—climbing up that hill with my bucket of pain. Jack and Jill have nothing on me.

Perhaps I'll be rewarded.

_Hello?_ I scream. _I'm doing my job! Don't forget my prize!_

But I'm calling to no one, and no one answers.

_The least you can do is give me a broken crown, _I mutter sullenly.

I feel the fire as it rushes through me, drawing inward, focusing. It's centering itself in my chest. In my heart.

Then I laugh at the thought that I have a heart. Hearts are for princesses and good little girls—not puppets on their strings.

I'm putting on a fantastic show at the puppet theatre, but someone set the stage on fire, and I can't dance with flaming feet. Damn these wooden legs!

No. No, that's not right. There's no dancing allowed in hell. I hope I'm not punished for being a bad little toy.

_Don't hurt me, Mommy. I'll clean up my mess. I'll be a good little Cinderella._

No. No! Wrong again. You don't get to be the princess. You're the handmaid, remember?

The space where my heart should be is a black hole—dense and heavy, sucking in supernovas.

Or maybe it's just Grandma stomping on my chest with spikes on her soles.

_Souls?_

Soles.

Come a bit closer, Little Red, I want a taste of your soul. Don't worry—I won't ask you to thank me.

_My, what big teeth you have, Grandma . . ._

Oh God oh God oh God oh—

_STOP IT! Shut up, you crazy fuck!_

. . .

Well, she's no fun.

I wish I had some tears. They would help, wouldn't they? But my eyes are dry and my hands are empty, and I have nothing more to give.

Don't you see? I'm all used up.

_You can stop now! I promise I'll be good. I'll do all my chores like I said—just make it stop._

_Please, make it stop . . ._

. . .

. . .

. . .

And then, somehow, it does.

There's a final, exploding blaze—an atom bomb dropped inside my empty chest cavity, mushrooming out and covering the world in smoldering pieces of flesh and bone.

Then nothing. No hurt. No ache.

Nothing.

It's hard to believe the pain is gone, and for a moment, I await its return. Surely, it isn't over. Eternity is forever, right? It doesn't just end.

But the fire is gone—it's a lingering memory, a phantom tingle that isn't even a shadow of real pain.

I start to notice other things. I hear leaves rustling, and I remember the word "leaves" and understand what it means. Extraordinary. Earthworms burrow through the dirt, a butterfly flaps its wings half a mile away. I smell fresh pine, clear water, clean linen, wood polish. I feel soft fabric under my fingers, microscopic fibers woven in a criss-cross pattern. I smell mint and honey and ocean air, and it feels strangely familiar. Pictures accompany the sounds and scents, and I _know_ these things.

For so long, I've known nothing but pain.

_How do I know these things?_

There's another sound—an inhalation—but it's too close. Deafening. My eyes flash open, and as I think it, it happens: I'm in the air, leaping away from the threat.

My senses are overwhelmed. I'm in a room, and there's someone here with me. I'm taking in everything at once: the strange figure in the corner, dust dancing on the air, individual brush marks in the pale paint on the walls, the wet snort of an animal outside, the smell of other people nearby—these raise the hackles on my neck, and I hiss. The sound comes of its own accord, but it feels right.

There are too many things all at once. I can't focus. I don't know what's important and what's not.

The man in the room—_yes, man and woman; I know these things, too_—takes a step, and I crouch with my back against the wall. My growl is low and dangerous. He stops and holds his hands up placatingly. I'm momentarily distracted, rolling that word around in my brain.

_Play-kate-ing-lee_. It feels nice.

"Bella . . ."

My eyes dart to his.

_I know that word. What does it mean?_

"Bella, you're safe. There's nothing to fear."

Unbidden, a sound comes from my mouth.

"Edward?"

As soon as the word is loosed, fire rages down my throat. I howl in anguish and scratch at my neck.

_No! No! No! Not this again! Not the pain!_

I'm crumbling under the weight of my despair.

_I can't do it again. I won't do it again!_

There must be something I can use to rip out my throat. If I have no throat, I can feel no pain. As I search the room for some useful tool, the man—Edward—steps closer, and I scramble away.

"Please, Bella, let me help you. You're thirsty. I can make the pain go away."

Instantly, my fear evaporates. He's sending me a lifeline, and I don't care if he's lying—this is the closest thing to hope I've felt in eternity, and I will take it.

"Please," I moan. "_Please_."

He walks slowly around me to the open window and points down. I follow his gaze to two beasts tethered to a tree at the edge of a large, grassy field. Instinctively, I taste their scent on the breeze. It smells off somehow, but the fire in my throat flares in response, and I know I'll try anything.

Before the thought is complete, I'm out the window, leaping two stories to the ground, and I'm across the field—ripping and tearing and drinking. I gorge myself, and I'm surprised to feel the burn does fade. It doesn't leave altogether, but the ache is bearable. After all, I know what real pain is.

When I've had my fill, I turn and see the man watching me from a dozen paces away. It feels better here—outside. I don't feel so claustrophobic.

_Hmm. Another good word._

_Kloss-tro-fo-bik_.

"Better?" he asks.

When I nod my head, he smiles—his mouth turning up in a crooked half-moon—and suddenly the air is sucked out of me as it all comes flooding back.

_Edward._

_EDWARD._

_Oh, God, Edward. My love. And I'm Bella. BELLA. I am a daughter and a student and a friend—_

No. I shake my head. _I'm not those things anymore._

_What am I?_

"What am I?" I hear my strange new voice ask.

Something about this feels familiar, but I shake it off. He's not answering me, and I need answers.

"Edward, what am I?"

His face crumbles, and he rushes to me, gathering me in his arms. I notice he doesn't feel cold and hard anymore. He feels right. He feels like me.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm so sorry," he murmurs into my hair, but he doesn't answer my question. That's okay, I already know.

As I say the new word, it doesn't feel good in my mouth. It tastes like ashes.

"Vampire."

* * *

**Edward**

Bella refuses to return to the house. She doesn't feel comfortable there. It's too small—"claustrophobic" is the word she uses, repeatedly—and the others make her nervous. I can hear them all silently screaming their impatience to meet her, but Alice has kept them at bay so far, claiming a poor outcome should they force themselves on her right now.

I'm pretty sure I would be responsible for the "poor outcome"—I'm feeling very protective of Bella. If she wants to be alone with me, that's what she'll get.

I know she must have questions for me, but she's silent for now. Her head is resting on my lap, and she's staring up at the sky—taking in the thousand details of her surroundings, no doubt. I remember my first days after the change. It was overwhelming—all the new sensations, the ability to process so much information, but the complete inability to prioritize that information's importance.

Counting the spots on a ladybug's back seemed just as necessary as learning the pressure it would take to crush a deer's neck. Feeling the distinct molecules of water in the air held as much interest as the realization that I didn't need to breathe anymore. Things were complicated in my case by the sudden ability to read every mind within a single block radius, and I'm thankful that Bella, at least, doesn't have to contend with that.

Mostly, I'm thankful she's allowing me to be here in her presence. I can so easily imagine her pushing me away. I'm responsible for all of this—why wouldn't she push me away? But for whatever reason, she wants me close, and I will deny her nothing.

She is, admittedly, a bit of a mess. She's covered in blood but doesn't seem to mind. If she takes notice of it anytime soon, I'll lead her down to the stream to wash up, but otherwise I'm happy to let her be.

We sit here at the edge of the forest as bright clouds dim, the hidden sun charting a path across the sky and falling behind rocky peaks in the west. Night comes and goes, and still Bella is content to stay in my lap, silently observing. When the moon has set and the robins announce morning's arrival, she speaks at last.

"I get it now."

I almost think I've imagined it, but the collective holding of breath from the house tells me I haven't.

"What's that, love?"

"Why you don't sleep."

I smile. It used to boggle her mind that I wasn't able to sleep. We had had quite a few discussions about it.

_"But don't you get tired? Don't you ever need a break?" she asks from her position propped against her headboard._

_I'm sprawled across the foot of the bed, perusing her high school yearbooks. I'm proud that I have yet to comment on page thirty-eight—candid shots of Bella's sophomore P.E. class._

_"Yes, I often find myself 'needing a break'. Not because my body requires it, but my mind does."_

_"But how do you get one if you're always awake?" Her eyes twinkle with curiosity._

_"It's like a computer running on 'sleep mode'. I'm never off—I just pause in my activity."_

_"It sounds absolutely exhausting. I think I might go crazy if I couldn't turn my brain off for at least few seconds everyday." She fingers the hem of her pajama bottoms. "And how do the days not all run together?"_

_"You learn to mark time differently."_

_She shakes her head and smiles wryly. "I know it gives you a lot of extra time, but I don't envy you that particular quirk."_

_It's a testament to Bella's ability to accept me unconditionally that she calls everything related to my vampiric abilities a "quirk"—as though it's some unique component of my personality, not a reflection of my deeply flawed nature._

_"Really? You wouldn't like more time to explore your interests? What about origami? You seemed very keen to take that up."_

_She laughs and throws a pillow at me._

_"Stop it! No fair making fun of my delirious ramblings!"_

_"Sorry, love," I say without remorse. "And for the record, I think you'd make quite a good whittler."_

_Squeals of laughter pierce the quiet evening, and I know I've never heard a more lovely sound._

The memory leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Bella didn't want this life. It was thrust upon her without her consent, and now she has to live with the consequences.

"You just don't get tired."

I'm surprised to hear her voice. I was sure she'd fallen into silent meditation again.

"I keep waiting to feel sleepy, but it never comes."

My heart aches for all that she's lost. And this is such a minor thing compared to the whole. How will she take it when she realizes she'll never grow into the woman she was meant to become? Never see her family again? Never have children?

"Sometimes a change of scenery helps. Would you like to go down to the river? We could freshen up a bit."

She raises her hands and examines the dried blood snaking along her flesh with calm detachment, like she's trying to decide between taking the elevator or stairs. After a moment, her arms fall to her sides. I guess she has no opinion on the matter.

"I think I'm thirsty," she says, as though asking me to verify it for her.

"Well then, let's hunt. The two bucks you had yesterday were edible, but I'm sure we can rustle up something a bit tastier for your next meal."

She's up in a flash, looking slightly startled by the swiftness of her movement.

"That's going to take some getting used to."

I smile as I move leisurely to standing. "We'll practice," I reassure her. "It can take some effort to re-learn how to move at a human pace."

_They're leaving?_ I hear Emmett think from the house. _Fucking lame!_

"You suck, Eddie!" he says, and I chuckle at his eagerness to meet Bella. They're all chomping at the bit, but some are handling the disappointment better than others.

"Later, man," I murmur, and turn to Bella, who is now examining the sleek modern structure across the yard.

"Who are you talking to?"

"Emmett. He's not feeling very patient at the moment, but he'll survive. Just ignore him."

"You better start sharing when you get back!" he says as Bella and I dash into the woods.

It's a beautiful thing, watching Bella run. She's graceful and effortless in her movement, wide strides and bare feet carrying her miles in seconds. It's like she was born for this: lean, sinuous limbs flexing as she flies through the forest; long, glossy hair waving behind her like some siren song; sharp, ruby eyes taking in every minute detail.

I lead Bella on a northerly course through the mountains, exploring the higher altitude for my intended prey. A sharp scent teases my nose, and I take Bella's wrist to halt her progress.

"Smell that?"

She lifts her chin and closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. Her eyes pop open, and her head snaps to the right.

"Wait a moment. We're upwind right now. Let's move southeast, out of the breeze."

I'm a bit amazed when she actually listens to me. She has extraordinary control. When we're in position, Bella inhales again and turns to me with a questioning look.

"Why does it smell that way?"

I point to a small copse of cedars half a mile away. Perched on a low limb of one of the towering trees is a mountain lion, tensed and ready to leap.

"See that?"

She nods her head.

"See what it's stalking?"

Below, in flat patch of green, is a young bull moose. Understanding lights in Bella's eyes as she realizes she's been taking in two distinct scents.

"You take the cougar. I'll take the moose. Okay?"

She nods with a smile in her eyes and pounces.

We stop by a stream on the way home, as Bella's finally ready to wash the blood from her skin and clothes. Pink water swirls downstream as she scrubs herself clean. The silhouette of her body stands out against the thin, wet fabric of her dress, and I turn my gaze away, reprimanding myself for the new direction of my thoughts.

_Not the time, Cullen._

If she notices my stiff posture on our return, she doesn't comment.

"That was so much better than deer," she says as we approach the rear of the house.

"Animals higher up the food chain always taste better."

"Oh."

There's an out of place lump in the yard, and we stop to examine it. Someone has laid out fresh sets of clothes for us. A note on top reads:

_Your company is requested in the dining room._

I sigh.

_Guess their patience is at an end._

I examine Bella as she reads the note.

"We don't have to. If you're not ready, they can wait."

Silently, Alice yells,_ No, we most certainly cannot! It's time, Edward. She needs to meet her new family!_

I ignore her and wait for Bella's reply.

"No, it's okay. I've put it off long enough. I'd like to meet them."

I can see she's exaggerating even that shallow enthusiasm, but I don't comment. It'll be good for her to see that there's nothing to fear from the family.

Bella moves behind a clump of trees to change, and it hurts to realize she feels the need to hide herself from me. I've been less messy than her in taking my meal, but I haven't changed since I left for the airport more than four days ago, so I quickly don my own set of clean clothes and wait for her to return.

Someone chose Bella's outfit from the suitcase I packed—a battered Clash t-shirt and dark gray yoga pants—and the familiar scent wafting towards me makes my heart ache. I didn't realize how much her scent had changed since she woke, but of course it did. Everything's different.

Bella looks down at herself and furrows her brow.

"I really did smell yummy. Is it wrong that I kind of want to eat my shirt?"

Laughter explodes from the house, and I can't help but join in.

Bella smiles sheepishly. "Jeez, how did you do it?"

I pull her into my arms and breathe in the mixture of old and new Bella—heavenly all around.

"I had the proper motivation, love." Nudging her forward, I say, "We better go, or Emmett's bound to tear down the wall to get to you."

* * *

**Bella**

I've never seen so much beauty in a single room. And I'm not talking about the decor. They're extraordinary, like old-time silver screen stars. Three matching sets of Venus and Adonis—each unique in their particular allure, but undeniably gorgeous, nonetheless. They look like a family. A very well-dressed family with exceptional genes.

The only physical similarities are the pale skin and amber eyes they share with Edward, but the resemblance runs deeper than hair color or height. They all project a certain confidence—as though they are each perfectly comfortable in their own skin.

I've never felt that way.

_Well, maybe now I have_, I think, remembering the ease with which I took down that mountain lion. _A little._

_Is that what I look like now—otherworldly, breathtaking—or have I become the only homely vampire in existence?_

They're all standing around a large table in an elegant dining room. The gleaming modern decor and inhuman beauty create an incredibly imposing scene, like I'm at the foot of Mount Olympus, bearing witness to a secret meeting of the gods. I feel underdressed in my stupid band t-shirt, and I pull the hem down, ripping it in the process.

"Shit," I say, and then, "Oh, God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to curse."

There are snickers and smiles all around, and I cringe. Edward whispers, "Relax, love," and though I know the rest of them can hear him, it still feels like a private message, just for me. They're all being very careful, and it seems like they're waiting for me to make the first move.

_Okay, suck it up, Bella. Time to meet the family_.

"Hi. I'm Bella." _Brilliant_. "But I guess you know that."

The blond man at the head of the table smiles broadly and says, "Welcome, Bella. I'm Carlisle. We're so happy to have you here. Would you like to have a seat?"

_Wow. Beautiful and polite. Vampires totally get a bad rap._

I'm at the foot of the table, across from him. Everyone moves to sit, and I place my hand on the polished wood of the chair in front of me, feeling it splinter between my fingers.

"Oh, no!" _Great first impression, Bella. Rip your clothes up and trash the dining room. Any chance you can insult someone's grandma, too?_

The woman with long caramel-colored hair on Carlisle's right says, "Please don't worry about that. Emmett does much worse tromping around here on a daily basis."

Her warm smile reminds me of someone. I hear a phantom voice shout, _"I'm home, Bella-Bear!"_, and my insides clench.

_Mom. Renee._

_Oh, God._

I don't know what hurts more: the fact that I haven't thought of her at all this past day, or how difficult it is to dredge the memory up.

In a fog, I let Edward pull the chair out for me, and I manage to sit without breaking anything else. He takes his own seat to my right.

"I'm Esme," says the woman with kind eyes. "Edward's mother, for all intents and purposes."

I remember something Edward once told me about Esme, but the memory flickers and fades before it can catch hold. Most of my memories from before feel like videos of someone else's life. Washed out and remote.

"And I'm Alice!" says the slight woman with nearly black hair to my immediate left. "I feel like I already know you so well—I'm so happy to finally meet you!" She reaches across the table to circle her arms around me, and I instinctively tense. It takes everything I have not to throw her across the room.

When she releases me, I feel hot shame for my reaction to an innocent hug, and I paw at my face, waiting for the familiar burn on my cheeks. When I realize my blush is never going to come, I'm both relieved and incredibly sad.

I manage to find my voice through a grimace. "Nice to meet you."

"This is Jasper," Alice says, giving no sign that she's noticed my rudeness as she gestures to the man with chin-length curly, ash-blond hair on her left. Something about him feels dangerous, makes me want to flee—then immediately the feeling is gone, replaced by a calm warmth, like butterscotch in my veins.

"A pleasure, Bella," he says with a slight southern lilt. He tips his head, and I send a blissed-out smile his way.

"Jasper," Edward mutters, "Do you mind?"

Jasper eyes Edward darkly and receives a sharp little shake of the head in return. Immediately, the warmth is gone, and I feel shaken. I look at Edward in silent question. He just takes my hand under the table and smiles back at me.

Before I can ask him what that was about, a booming voice to Edward's right draws my attention.

"I'm Emmett! Nice to meet ya, little sis! I hope you can help us wipe that perma-scowl off Eddie's face."

The human mountain with deep dimples moves to ruffle Edward's hair, but is quickly rebuffed. He's the most imposing of the group, but for some reason I don't feel threatened in the slightest. Annoyed, but not threatened. He plants a beefy paw around the platinum vixen at his right and crows, "This lovely lady is my Rosie."

"Rosalie," she corrects coolly, and I feel a shiver slink down my spine. She reminds me of another bitchy blonde vampire, and immediately I feel like jumping across the table and ripping into her. I tamp the feeling down and squeeze Edward's hand in silent communication.

_Okay, introductions are done. Can I go now?_

"Okay," says the frigid blonde as she stands. "That's done. I'll be in my room."

_Weird_. I don't know if I feel a sudden affinity for this woman or even more distaste.

"Rosalie—" Esme admonishes. "Don't be rude."

The blonde continues out of the room as though she hasn't heard, and Edward sneers, "Let her go. She's starting to get on my nerves, anyway."

"Bella," Carlisle begins, ignoring the uncomfortable scene, "we just wanted to let you know that you are truly welcome here. We know you haven't come to this life of your own accord"—He glances at Esme, and her sad smile matches his—"but we are here for you in whatever capacity you need. We really do view ourselves as a family, and we would be honored if you could someday learn to see us the same way."

_Is he for real?_

This is way too much. I start to panic, and my throat closes, blocking air to my lungs. Somehow I know I don't need it, but it feels disconcerting nonetheless.

_I barely remember my own family—how the hell does he expect me to take on another one? I just met these people, and half of them make me feel more uncomfortable than welcome._

_Jesus!_

The walls are suddenly too close, and I need to get out. I don't want to be here. I want to be outside.

"I think that's enough for now," Edward says, rising smoothly. He pulls my chair out and holds his arm out to me. I take it gratefully, and try to offer whatever polite reply I can.

"Um. Thank you," I choke out, not meeting their eyes as I escape. "Nice to meet you all."

Then we're outside on the soft green grass, and I feel like I can finally breathe again. Edward says nothing about my introduction to his family. He strokes my hair as I watch clouds trudge across the sky in morose little tableaus.

After the memory of my mom hit me so brutally, I decide to try to recall all I can about my previous life. I want to own my memories, not be ambushed by them. It's difficult—like struggling to remember a dream—but as I work at it, I start to build a picture of who I was.

The most recent events are easiest to recall, which is probably why I feel so comfortable with Edward, even though in many ways he seems like a stranger. I remember the hours we spent together in my last week of life, though the specific conversations we had are fragmented and incomplete. I remember the way he made me feel, remember thinking I loved him.

But that was another Bella. Not me.

That was a girl who hadn't been ripped from her life without cause or explanation. A girl who hadn't lived through an eternity of torment. A girl who hadn't forgotten everything that was important to her. A girl who didn't mistrust everything and everyone around her.

I'm not that girl. I'm lost. I don't know what it means to be this new Bella—this person I barely recognize.

_How can I love anyone when I don't even know what it means? When the word has already turned to ash in my mouth?_

I continue plodding through the fragments of my life, picking at broken puzzle pieces and trying to force them together. I liked quiet moments, I realize. Some of my happiest were sitting with Angela on our couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, or at the kitchen table helping Renee plot her latest career change. When I was little, I liked sitting in Charlie's boat in the summertime, dangling a fishing line that would never catch anything because I felt too sorry for the fish to bait it. I liked being alone on the banks of the Charles, reading the latest Atwood novel and basking in the sun.

_I used to love the sun. I don't think I've felt it since I woke up._

"Edward, why are we here?" The sky is growing dark, and I realize I've been silent while another day has passed us by.

"Hmm?" He continues to stroke my hair, and I wonder what would happen if I tried to cut it. "Well, I thought you wanted some space. We can certainly go inside, if you like."

"No. I mean, we're in Forks, right?"

He nods.

"Why did you bring me here?"

I sit up so I can see his face properly. If I'm honest, I don't really feel like being touched right now. The numb disinterest I've been feeling since I woke is starting to fade. I'm afraid it's being replaced by something ugly.

He takes a long time to formulate his words. "The first year is going to be incredibly difficult for you, Bella. You're going to need to feed all the time, and it's best if you aren't around a mass of humanity while you're learning to control yourself."

"Control myself?" I ask, though I know exactly what he means. I just want to hear him say it.

"I mean, if you want to keep to our diet, that is." He suddenly looks worried. "You do, don't you?"

For some reason this makes me angry.

"Yes, of course I do," I snap as I leap up and start to pace. He stands, watching me nervously.

Then I realize what it is—why this conversation is making my blood boil. Venom boil. Whatever.

He's obviously thought this through. They all have. They picked up everything and moved from Alaska to be here and help me "while I'm learning to control myself". They're making some huge assumptions on my behalf, but they haven't said a single word about it to me.

"It just would have been nice to be consulted, is all. Seems like quite a few choices have been taken from me lately."

Edward tip-toes through his reply. "None of us want to make choices for you, Bella. We're just trying to help."

"And yet, here I have a ready-made family waiting for me in my _new home_ when I wake up." I stand up and motion to the concrete and chrome structure glowing in the night. "Before I even have a chance to mourn the _real parents_ I have out there—ones that are probably still searching for me—I'm somebody's new 'little sis,' somebody's new 'best friend'."

"Bella, that's not—" But I'm on a roll and have no intention of letting him get in a word.

"And you—what am I supposed to be to you? Ready-made girlfriend? Lover? _Mate?_" I glare at him with bile in my heart. "That's my job, right—to keep you happy? The family's counting on me. How delighted they must be to have finally collected the last figurine in the matching set!"

I know I'm being cruel, but I can't help myself. Rage is coursing through every inch of me. I don't think I'm even really angry at Edward. I just want someone to hurt like I hurt, and he's the closest target.

"Why don't you just tell me what I'm supposed to be for _the rest of eternity_, so I don't have to trouble my empty little head trying to figure it out on my own."

"Bella, please—"

"No! It's not fair! I didn't _want_ this!" I scream. "_I didn't ask for this!_ And you all think I'm going to step in line and be your shiny new toy! Well, I won't!"

"No, love—"

"_STOP CALLING ME 'LOVE'! I don't even know what that word means!_"

My voice rings shrilly into the night, echoing into forever. Then all is silent.

Edward is staring at me open-mouthed, and the pain in his eyes—_God, I put that there._

_I'm horrible._

_Worthless._

_Nothing._

I fall to my knees and bury my face in my hands.

"It's not fair . . . it's not fair . . . " I sob over and over again. I want to wash this hurt away, and I'm trying, but the tears aren't coming, and that makes me want to cry even more.

_How am I going to do this? How am I going to be this?_

_Why can't I just feel what I used to feel?_

_It would be so much easier if I could just love Edward. Then I would be what I'm supposed to be. I would fit. But I'm not a part of that puzzle anymore. I'm a blank piece. I'm all wrong._

"I used to love you—I did. I remember. I just can't—" I force myself to look up into his tortured eyes as I say this. I owe him that much, at least. "I can't feel that anymore."

He stands silent, unmoving.

"I'm broken."

* * *

*sigh* I know. I'm sad, too.

We had some interesting guesses in the reviews. Were you right? Are you surprised? Do you hate me yet?

Story Recommendation: "Cooking for Dummies" by Nikita2009 - Chef Edward and food critic Bella butt heads in the most fantastic way. The action is just starting to heat up. Check it out!


	14. Ch 13 EverLiving Ghost

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own my forever gratitude.

We have some pretty passionate views about the last chapter. Some of you are angry with Bella, some of you think I have my head stuck up my ass, and some of you totally get where I'm going with this! Love it or hate it, I'm glad you have strong feelings, my friends!

I've entered the **FicThisGif** contest hosted by **JadaLulu**. It's anonymous, so I can't tell you which one is mine. But there's some really great stuff there, so I encourage you to read them, and when the time comes, vote!

http: / www . Fanfiction . net / u /3958398/ FicThisGifAnonContest (remove spaces)

And to my three little bears, **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516**: I squeeze you til you die!

Suggested listening:  
"Love is Blindness" by Jack White  
"No One's Gonna Love You" by Band of Horses  
"Love Love Love" by Of Monsters and Men

* * *

**Chapter 13 - Ever-Living Ghost**

It's looking like a limb torn off  
Or altogether just taken apart  
We're reeling through an endless fall  
We are the ever-living ghost of what once was

But no one is ever gonna love you more than I do  
No one's gonna love you more than I do

"No One's Gonna Love You" - Band of Horses

* * *

**Edward**

"I used to love you—I did. I remember. I just can't—"

_No, please. Please don't say it._ I'm begging her to stop, but my voice has been ripped away. I can't see her eyes, and she can't read my mind.

_How can I tell her to stop if she won't look at me and I have no voice?_

_Please, Bella—just this once—read my mind._

Her eyes find mine, and for a moment I think I have a chance. She looks so sad, like she doesn't want to hurt me.

_Don't hurt me! Don't say it. Please, God, don't let her say it._

Time collapses as I hear the words fall from her lips, and I know I've earned no favors from God.

"I can't feel that anymore."

_No! NO! Take it back, Bella, please. Please don't do this. I'll be nothing if you don't love me. I'll be—_

"I'm broken."

All of the air is gone. There's nothing to breathe, which is fine because I have no reason to breathe. An empty shell has no need for breath.

_She doesn't want this. She doesn't want me. She doesn't love me._

_What have I done?_

_God, what have I done?_

_I was wrong. I shouldn't have believed Alice. Shouldn't have let her convince me to hope. But I did, and now Bella's soul is lost and we have nothing. Nothing._

_I should have set the fire and let us burn together._

_I used to love you . . . I used to love you . . . I used to love you . . ._

The words spiral round and round, flapping like buzzards in my mind. Maybe if I stand here long enough, they'll pick me clean.

* * *

**Bella**

Edward's been quiet for so long, I'm starting to wonder if I imagined the whole thing.

_Maybe I didn't really say all those horrible things. Surely he would have shown some reaction by now, if I had?_

But he doesn't move. Doesn't twitch a muscle. Just draws deep into himself with a blank expression and hollow eyes. It's disorienting, the cool detachment masking his features—as though he's not only currently devoid of emotion, but always has been. It makes me question everything I thought I knew about him.

Deep in the woods, an owl screeches as it swoops down to snag its prey. I wonder how its talons might feel against my neck. Would they slide off harmlessly, or could they perhaps scratch into my stony flesh? I think I'd like to find out.

"Will you please excuse me?" Edward says at last, startling me. His voice holds the same cool dispassion as his eyes.

"What?" I manage to say.

"I need to take care of a few arrangements inside." He's perfectly polite, but there's something robotic about his tenor. "You're welcome to stay here or come with me—whichever you prefer."

_Arrangements? What arrangements?_ But I don't say anything. I don't have the right to question him now, and we both know I'm not going back in that house.

He turns and starts walking away but stops halfway across the yard, his back to me.

"I apologize in advance for how this is going to sound, but if you decide to leave the property, you should make sure you take an escort—lest you're tempted to turn one of the locals into a snack. Just say the word. Anyone will be glad to join you."

I wonder if he means to include himself in that "anyone".

He disappears into the house, and I'm alone for the first time in days.

I want to feel relieved. Even though what I said was beyond cruel, it was basically the truth, and it should feel good to unburden myself. Shouldn't it?

But I feel sick inside, and I'm afraid of what I've done.

In spite of my resentment for the position I find myself in, I don't have another choice—I have nowhere else to go. I don't know how to be a vampire. I can't even pull a chair out without breaking it, for Christ's sake. And I do need to learn how to control my thirst. Edward functions perfectly well in society, but what would happen if I were to wander into downtown Forks? To have any hope of leading an approximation of a life, I need to be able to interact with people without inciting a bloodbath.

My mind keeps turning to what "arrangements" Edward might be making. _Has he decided I'm too much trouble? Is he going to get rid of me?_ I'm struck by an image of myself boxed up on a cargo plane, my wooden packing crate falling through miles of empty sky and crashing down on the desolate African savanna. It's a good solution. There'd be no worry about "local populations", and I'd be feasting on lion and wildebeest my first year.

_Why wouldn't he do it? I've rejected his family and his love—if that's what he was offering_, I amend. I guess I'm not sure.

_Oh, God, his family! They must have heard everything. They must think I'm an ungrateful shrew._

Suddenly I feel like being boxed up and carted away is exactly what I deserve. They should drop me in the middle of the ocean. I'd be right at home with the sharks—I certainly have a knack for inflicting wounds.

There's a break in the cloud cover, and for a moment the moon shines down on me. It's bright and full, and my skin reflects its light, shining and shimmering with an eerie glow. It's lovely.

_I wonder how something so beautiful can house something so foul._

The silent night offers no reply.

_I'd really like to sleep now._

"Bella?" Edward's voice startles me. I'm surprised I didn't sense him standing there on the porch. I draw a deep breath before turning to hear him to pronounce my verdict.

_Yea or nay? Will Caesar's thumb turn up or down?_

He takes a few steps toward me, seeming to measure my reaction. His face is still passive, but not quite as cold as it was.

"I have something to show you. If you don't mind."

_What?_

"It's in the house. You won't have to stay long, and I've asked everyone to make themselves scarce, so it'll just be you and me."

_Okay, he's tip-toeing again. I guess I'm not going to be banished—at least not right away._

"Will you come with me?"

_What can I say? 'No—let me give you another reason to hate me.' Of course I'm going to go._

"Sure."

Ever the gentleman, he holds the door open for me, but his expression is guarded—unreadable. He leads me past the entryway to a flight of stairs. At the top floor, we reach a hallway, and he pauses with his hand on the knob of the first door.

"I know I can never give you back what's been taken from you, and I will forever regret that. But I promise I will do everything in my power to make this new life bearable for you—whether that means you choose to have me in it or not. I want nothing more than to see you happy, Bella."

This is not what I was expecting at all, and for a moment I feel like I might slip into one of my old "leave of absences". But the shadowy disorientation only lasts a moment, and I stare in wonder at Edward as he continues.

"At some point, we should talk about what you'd like to do next, but perhaps we can save that conversation for a little later. Any serious move will require some time to plan, and it would be useful to include the others in the discussion. In the meantime, we will all try to make this house as comfortable for you as we can."

I'm reeling now. First he says he wants me to be happy, and now he's talking about having me leave. I don't understand. Before I can get a handle on it all, he says, "It isn't much, but it's what I have to offer at the moment."

He opens the door and I step in, recognizing the room as the one in which I woke. Same pale walls, same deep-blue curtains. But everything else is different. The furniture has been rearranged, and there are picture frames and knick-knacks lining the surfaces of the dresser and shelves. On the bed is a large quilt made from t-shirts, and the scent it emits is familiar and mouth-watering.

"Virginia Woolf," Edward says cryptically from behind me. "I don't know if you remember, but you used to like her quite a bit._ A Room of One's Own_. The work was directed toward writers, but I can see the benefit to someone in your situation, as well."

And I realize why this all feels so familiar. The space is laid out just like my old room in Cambridge. These pictures and funny little objects are personal mementos from the life I barely remember. As I take in the increasingly familiar treasures, flashes of memories start sparking, and I cry out in shocked delight.

"Oh, my God! Edward!"

I can't say anything else. I'm so overwhelmed. It's so much more than I'd ever hoped—I thought surely all of this was lost in the wake of my sudden, violent end. But it's here. It's real. It's tangible evidence I once walked this earth—human and flawed and loved.

I turn, and before I know what's happening, my arms are wrapped around him, and I'm chanting, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you so much!" He seems startled by my response, and I jump away quickly, realizing I've been too forward.

"It's perfect. Really, thank you."

A smile teases the corner of his mouth, and finally some of the ice seems to melt from his exterior.

"I've put myself in the guest room next door," he says, motioning to his right. "So if you ever need anything, you can find me there."

Something inside sinks with the understanding that he doesn't intend to share the room with me. Then I realize I've given him no reason to think such a thing would be welcome.

"Edward. What I said before—"

"No. Please. You have no reason to explain yourself or to feel any remorse."

I know he's wrong—I absolutely have a reason to feel remorse. But he seems intent on giving me a pass, so decide to let him. For the moment, anyway.

For the first time since I woke, I take Edward in. Really look at him. For a second I remember exactly how beautiful he seemed to my human eyes. Looking at him now, I register how woefully inadequate that impression was. He's not just gorgeous—he's ethereal, magical.

Before I've had my fill, he's backing out of the room. "I'll leave you alone. When you want to go hunting, let one of us know."

I want to shout, "Please don't go!" but I choke the words off.

I'm confused about why I want him to stay. _Is it just to ease my guilt? Because I don't want to be alone? Because I need him?_ I can't answer those questions, and it doesn't seem fair to make him stay until I can.

Maybe he doesn't want to be around me, anyway.

He pauses at the doorframe and eyes me carefully. At last, he says, "Bella, I'm truly sorry that we've made you feel pressured in the myriad ways we have. But let me be clear. No one here expects anything of you—other than to be exactly who you are."

I know he's trying to make me feel better, but what he said makes me feel a thousand times worse.

He closes the door behind him, and I am alone.

* * *

**Edward**

For a little while Bella moves around the room, picking up objects and examining them—taking care not to crush them between her fingers—inhaling deeply to capture their scent.

I presume.

I'm imagining all this, of course—picturing her as I listen through the wall dividing our rooms.

I hold my breath so I can better hear hers as I sit on the floor with my back against the infuriating barrier. My hands shake with the urge to touch her, but I don't move. I'll suffer the separation if it's what she needs.

I hear the bed squeak, and then the room goes quiet. I wonder if she's lying on her quilt. Maybe she's thinking about sleep again. I wish I could somehow give her a moment's peace.

_I don't know how to be away from her._

We haven't been separated since the day we crashed into each other. Aside from hunting trips while she slept and rare sunny days when I had to make my own circuitous path to Black Ground, I've been by her side every moment.

_I don't know how to be without her._

_What am I going to do if she wants to leave? What am I going to do if she won't let me come?_

I push the thought down and focus on the sound of her breathing on the other side of the wall. Slow and steady. If it weren't for the distinct absence of a heartbeat, I could almost believe she was human. Happy. Sleeping.

_Bella's eyelids start to droop and her head lolls to the side. She's fighting sleep, but I can tell she's close. I'm not sure if she'll want to stay here on my couch. I don't mind, of course, but I can't imagine it will be comfortable for her. Still, I'm hesitant to initiate a change of location. If she falls asleep in my apartment, I definitely get to stay with her. If she decides to go home, she might not want me to come. We've been in each other's company for over twenty-four hours; maybe she needs some space._

_I don't._

_I've cleared the junk off the couch, but the place is still a wreck in the wake of this afternoon's "indoor tornado"—as Bella has taken to calling it. After we stopped laughing, she tried to clean up a bit, but I insisted on keeping the mess for a while._

_"It'll be good for me to get used to some disorder in my life," I told her. "Having a human around will undoubtedly invite its own brand of chaos."_

_She slapped at me playfully and quipped, "Oh, and do you plan on having me around much?"_

_"Always."_

_Her responding silence unnerved me until I looked down and saw her bright smile shining back._

_Bella's eyes close and her neck gives up the fight. Her head drops to my shoulder and her breathing slows._

_It's now or never._

_"Bella?"_

_"Hmm?"_

_"You're falling asleep, love." I stroke her hair and inhale deeply._

_"No, I'm not," she mutters. She has such a stubborn streak._

_"Your eyes are closed," I point out with a smile._

_"I can quit anytime."_

_"Really?"_

_"Yeah, the monkeys will help."_

_I chuckle; she must be asleep already. I wonder what her dream is about, and I prod her to keep talking._

_"Monkeys?"_

_She huffs in exasperation then murmurs, "Typing. It's noisy."_

_This is fantastic. How long will she go on?_

_"The monkeys are typing?" I ask._

_"Hamlet."_

_Ah, the infinite monkey theorem. Interesting. I wouldn't have pegged Bella for a statistics buff. Of course, I'm talking about the girl who runs toward, not away from, vampires—nothing about her should surprise me. I run a finger along the line of her temple and down her cheek. She sighs, and a relaxed grin overtakes her face._

_"Bella, do you want to sleep here?"_

_I'm surprised when she gives me a somewhat coherent response._

_"Will you be here?"_

_"Of course."_

_"Okay."_

_I move her as gently as I can, laying her down the length of the leather couch with one of the cushions under her head. She rolls on her side and goes still. I don't have a blanket, so I cover her with my trench coat and turn the thermostat up, vowing to investigate home furnishing stores in the morning. Then I situate myself on the floor and watch her sleep until the sun rises and she's with me once again._

I've never been so tormented by this perfect memory, this flawless recall.

_I can't do this. I can hardly function with Bella in the next room. I won't survive without her in my life._

I want to smash something. I want to rip up the floorboards and throw the dresser across the room. I can barely contain the anger I feel, but there's no way to give full voice to my rage since it's so entirely directed at myself. I have no one else to blame for this.

_I never should have left her alone. I never should have let Tanya get that close. I never should have let this happen._

_If only I had done things differently, Bella wouldn't be on the other side of this fucking wall. She wouldn't be closed up in her own room lamenting her lost life. She'd be with me. She'd be happy. She'd know I love her._

_Maybe she'd even love me back._

_God, it hurts. It hurts so much._

* * *

The night passes as such:

Remember.

Rage.

Regret.

Repeat.

When the sun slices across my floor, I take no interest. The new day has no meaning. Nothing has changed.

"Edward?"

She's talking to me through the wall, and her melodic voice fills me with such unbelievable joy I almost burst through the barrier to get to her. Instead, I fake calm interest.

"Yes, Bella? Can I do something for you?"

_Right. Calm interest. More like unbridled desperation._

"Um, the sun's out, and I'd really like to see it. Will you—"

I don't let her finish. Maybe she's asking me to get Alice to escort her, but for my sanity's sake, I assume she wants me.

"Yes, of course. Let's go."

We meet in the hallway and share an awkward moment of not acknowledging we've spent the night separated by four inches of wallboard, pretending not to listen to each other. At least I was pretending. Perhaps she really didn't pay me any mind.

We walk out of the house together, and I note the family still hasn't returned. They must have gone to Canada for their hunting trip. I don't think they'll stay away much longer. Even given how Bella feels about them, they're going to find it difficult to give her the space she needs.

_I guess they're not the only ones._

That train of thought is derailed when Bella steps onto the sunny patch of grass in the backyard, and her skin lights up like a crystal chandelier.

_My God, she's gorgeous. Breathtaking. Exquisite._

"Wow."

I don't realize it's me that's spoken until Bella turns her questioning eyes on me.

"You look, just—wow," I stammer, and she gets that funny, chagrined expression that comes just before she blushes. Only she doesn't blush, and I feel bile rise in my throat.

She doesn't notice my sudden shift in mood, as she's now examining her arms shimmering in the light. I push down the morose thought, because I'm here with Bella and I'm going to garner all the joy that affords me.

"It feels good. Different," she says, with her eyes closed and her face raised to the sky. "I missed the warmth. When I was little, I stopped visiting Forks because there was never any sun."

And just as quickly, the bile is back.

Her eyes fly open as she realizes what she just said, and she turns to me with a guilty expression.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."

"No, Bella, please don't apologize. Please don't ever apologize." I can't stand to hear her say "sorry" after all that I've done.

"No, really, Edward—I need to. I understand why you brought me here. I don't mind Forks. See?" She does a little twirl with outstretched arms, and the light bounces off her like flashing bulbs on a gleaming carousel. "There's sun here."

I can't help but smile at the childlike move. She looks so free; I want to see her twirl some more.

"Will you do that again?" I ask, before my verbal filter takes over and stops me.

"Spin?"

"Yes, please."

She laughs at the request—full and unrestrained—and the breath is knocked out of me. I haven't heard Bella's new laugh. It's extraordinary, like a chorus of ringing bells.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "You look pale. Well, paler."

_What can I say? 'Your laughter just hit me like a heavy narcotic?'_ I don't want her to think I'm pressuring her. I want to give her space. But she looks worried, and I can't think of any other plausible excuse for my behavior.

"It's nothing. I just haven't heard you laugh in a while."

"Oh."

A funny, secret smile plays on her face, and I wonder what she's thinking. She doesn't say.

"Do you still want me to spin?"

Is she really going to humor my request? _Yes, please! Spin!_

"Yes."

"Okay, but I feel a little silly. You should do it with me."

"Not a chance."

She chuckles at my refusal, and I'm relieved. I don't know that I could deny her if she really wanted me to. She starts twirling, and again shards of light fly off her skin, casting rainbows all around.

"It's fun—you should try it!"

Emmett's thought cuts through my smile. _Yeah, Eddie, try it. I wanna see you spin!_

An anvil presses down on my shoulders.

The family is filing into the house by the front door, and snippets of their conversations and unspoken thoughts reach me.

Bella comes to a stop, and the smile falls from her face. "They're home?"

"Yeah."

She eyes the house like it's a venomous snake, and I hate how quickly the moment has gone from feeling good to feeling all wrong.

"Would you like to take a little run with me? There's a place I sometimes go when it gets too loud here."

She looks relieved for an excuse to escape, and I feel a surge of joy that she's not pushing me away.

I lead her west, toward a small rolling mountain range. We go at an easy pace, stopping for a snack on the way. This time around, Bella is a bit more adept at keeping clean during her meal.

When we reach the edge of the meadow, she stops short, a look of awe on her face. Summer wildflowers are in bloom, and the mossy bed of green is adorned in a kaleidoscope of color. Unbroken sun shines down on scotch bluebells, arrowhead butterweed, and delicate Queen's cup blossoms—bright points of crimson, yellow, indigo, violet, and white swaying gently in the warm breeze.

"Oh, my gosh. It's beautiful." She takes a hesitant step forward and inhales deeply. "And it smells like . . . I can't describe it. It's like honey and earth and brown sugar and lavender all mixed up together."

"Do you like it?"

Her smile is broad and open. "Very much."

She wanders into the field, brushing her hand along the delicate petals, gathering pollen on her fingertips like a sparkling bee. I follow at a slow pace. I don't want to crowd her. A soft gust of air whistles through the treetops, and I feel lighter than I have in hours.

"Do you remember when you showed me the cherry trees on the Charles?" I ask after a while.

She turns with a look of concentration and nods slowly, as though the memory is there, but not as vivid as she'd like. It must be incredibly frustrating for her.

"We'd just seen a movie with Spencer and Angela," I prompt, moving a bit closer.

"Something about a girl with blue hair?" she asks.

"Yes. _Coraline_. I think we both had a hard time focusing on the film, though." This brings an embarrassed smile to her face, and once again I miss her absent blush.

"You told me you wanted to show me something. I was so curious, but you wouldn't tell me what it was. We walked along the Charles holding hands, and I scared off the geese," I continue, hoping to help sketch the mental picture she can't draw on her own. She needs her memories if she's ever going to feel whole again.

"You apologized for following me," she says uncertainly.

"No, I apologized for _upsetting you_ by following you. And you called me on it."

She smirks and says, "That sounds like you."

"And you," I tease. I remember what happened next, and my smile fades. "You made me promise to stop trying to leave you."

Her eyes go dark, and I wonder if she's thinking maybe it would have been better if she hadn't made me promise such a thing.

"And you forgave me," I whisper. My reason for needing forgiveness now is so much greater than before. So great I have no right to ask for it. Bella is silent, so I go on.

"You told me about your family, about almost moving to Forks. I got upset, and you tried to make me feel better. You—" But I can't continue the story. It cuts me to remember how Bella once thought meeting me was destiny. Once told me I felt like home.

"It was a really nice day," I say at last. "One of my favorites."

I take a breath to clear my head, and motion to the space around us. "I wanted to show you my favorite place. I used to come here a lot to be alone and think. I've never brought anyone else."

Bella slowly circles in place, examining the meadow as though this information might have somehow altered its appearance.

For a long time, the only movement comes from lazy white clouds floating overhead and delicate little flowers swaying below. Bella and I stand unmoving like two stone pillars—incredibly close, yet infinitely far away.

"Thank you," she says at last. "For sharing this place. For the memory."

"You're welcome. If there's anything else I can help you remember, I'd be glad to. Perfect recall, you know," I say wryly, tapping my head. I know this is dangerous territory, but I can't help myself. I'll do anything to make things better for her.

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, and the familiar gesture makes me feel warm.

"There is—" She hesitates. "I mean, it's not a memory you can help me with, but I do have a question."

"Yeah?" I say, hoping my expression is open and encouraging. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering what happened to _her_ . . ." She struggles to continue. "You know, the one who did _this_." She motions to herself, and I finally understand.

_Tanya. She wants to know what happened to Tanya._

I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Thinking about Tanya—thinking about Bella going through what she did—makes me want to destroy something.

_I wasn't there._

_I didn't stop it._

_I let it happen._

"Edward?" I realize I haven't responded to Bella's question, and I'm not sure I know how. Maybe I can just stick with the basic facts.

"I found her standing over you," I say hollowly. "I tore her apart. Jasper and Alice took the pieces away and burned them."

"Oh."

She looks mildly surprised by this, and I wonder how this version differs from her imagination. It's hard for me to see any other course of action in dealing with someone who'd hurt my love—vampire or not.

"She knew you. She was really upset with me," she says, pressing for more information.

_Does she want an explanation? How do I explain this? How can anything explain what happened to her?_

My silence only encourages her, and she continues, "I mean, I didn't know who she was. I didn't understand why she wanted to hurt me, and you weren't there—"

Bella's memory on this point appears far from hazy, and I feel a scream welling up inside.

_No, Bella, please don't make me talk about this. I can't picture you like that. I can't see you hurting again._

"Edward?" Now it's she who looks intent on destroying something. Maybe she can rip me apart. It would solve both our problems. "Don't you have anything to say?"

She thinks I can answer her questions, but all I have are questions of my own. I don't know why this happened to her, but even if I did, it wouldn't change anything. Answers won't give Bella her life back. Answers won't give me my love back.

"_Edward_."

"_What can I say, Bella?_" I howl. "_There's nothing I can say to make this better!_"

Her eyes are flaming, and her hands are twisted into claws at her sides.

"You can tell me who the fuck she was, for starters," she says, with fire boiling under her calm exterior.

"I don't—I can't—" I stutter.

I'm a coward, and I know it. Bella deserves to know what happened—as well as I can explain it. My discomfort doesn't count for shit.

I take a deep breath and focus on the flowers dancing in the breeze. If I don't picture Bella's broken body in my arms, maybe I can get through this.

"Her name was Tanya," I say at last. "Our families are close—or, used to be. I thought we were friends."

Bella's expression is unreadable as she takes this in.

"Friends?"

"She wanted more." I had no idea how great that desire was. Perhaps I would have been more careful if I had.

"But you rejected her."

I nod.

Silence.

"So that's it? She was jealous and decided to kill me? Seems a little extreme."

Bella's joking tone is unnerving. I want to address her flippancy, but her question has sparked a flash of insight. What she's ultimately looking for is why, and while I can't give her that, I can paint a fuller picture.

"But that's the thing. She didn't kill you. What she did was incredibly difficult—to feed on you, but not kill you. She wanted to change you."

I don't understand it. Any way I spin it, it makes no sense. If Tanya wanted me for herself, why not get rid of the competition?

"Well, that explains some things," Bella says evenly.

"What things?"

In spite of myself, I'm eager for any clues that might shed light on Tanya's actions.

"She told me she was doing me a favor. I guess she thought—" But she doesn't need to finish. Neither of us will ever view what Tanya has done as a favor.

And it hits me. The facts click into place like a key in its lock.

_Tanya wanted to die._

_She knew I'd kill her for hurting Bella._

_Her last gift to me was eternal love._

Only her plan backfired. I almost laugh at the irony. Bella's love, it seems, was not eternal—it couldn't survive the fires of the change.

_And now I've lost everything._

_Everything._

"I think—" Bella's voice startles me. For a moment I was alone. "At the end . . . I think she asked me to take care of you."

I feel myself crack, and the world turns red.

_IT'S SO FUCKING UNFAIR!_

I can't stop myself—I have to break something. I find the largest tree I can and slam into it, roaring as it crashes to the ground, scattering birds to the sky. I thrash against the massive trunk, flailing impotently through my rage. I pound and punch and crush until there's nothing left of the mangled tree but broken splinters and dust.

The decimated pile of pulp rests at my feet.

I wish my knuckles would bleed. I wish I could feel some hurt. But there's nothing, and my anger has ebbed.

Everything's numb.

* * *

Story recommendation: "Blood Play" by Kissyfur - A beautiful, dark, sexy, thrilling story of a sadistic Edward who takes Bella for a night of blood games and deliciously brutal sex. Edward's forest freak-out is an homage to a scene of epic destruction in that story.


	15. Ch 14 Little Talks

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a million fears, but one great love.

No words today except "thank you."

**AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516**: XOXOXO!

Suggested listening:  
"Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men  
"Especially Me" by Low  
"Welcome Home" by Radical Face

* * *

**Chapter 14 - Little Talks**

Sleep don't visit, so I choke on sun  
And the days blur into one  
And the backs of my eyes hum with things I've never done

"Welcome Home" - Radical Face

**Bella**

I've never seen Edward this angry. With my hazy grasp on the past, I guess I can't be certain, but if I'd ever witnessed him demolish a tree with his bare hands you'd think it would have stuck.

I might find it funny, if I didn't feel like joining him. But I've had my moment of righteous anger, and I hurt people who didn't deserve my ire, so I'll be sitting this one out.

When it seems no more damage will come to the surrounding forrest, I risk a few steps toward him.

"Feel better?"

He huffs humorlessly. "No."

"But there's one less home for the wildlife, so that's something."

_Where is this coming from?_

I can't remember the last time I felt like making a joke, but something about Edward's morose posture makes me want to lighten the mood. He won't turn around, and his distance feels all wrong.

I understand his anger. That bitch—Tanya—took everything. She thought she could play God, but what did it get her besides dismemberment and immolation?

"I'm sorry you're upset."

His voice is as hollow and lifeless as an empty train station. "I told you to stop apologizing."

This is so familiar. I'm always apologizing, and he's always telling me to stop. _Why can't everything else be as familiar? Why can't I just take his love as the gift it surely is, rather than a stone shackled to my neck?_

Because I see it now: he loves me.

He forgave me for being cruel to him—dismissing my transgression as though there were nothing to forgive. He made space for me in his home and helped me rekindle memories I thought I'd lost forever. He shielded me from his family because I wanted it, though we both know there's nothing I need protecting from. He brought me to this sacred place just to share something secret and special with me.

_Would he do any of that if he didn't think I was worth it? Would he do any of that if I weren't the bright, flaming center of his universe?_

He loves me, and it's still not enough to make my aching heart beat again. Not enough to fix whatever is broken inside of me. That hurts more than knowing my life ended on the whim of some stupid, jealous vampire shrew.

"I didn't feel better either, you know. It didn't feel good to hurt you."

He doesn't acknowledge me in any way. That's okay; I know he's listening.

"Somehow, I knew what to say to cause the most damage. But when it was over, I just felt sick. You deserve an apology for that, but I know you don't want to hear me say it."

What I'm going to say next makes me the most selfish creature in the world, but I don't care. I can't stand another moment being locked up in that room, separated from him by that infuriating wall. I'm done with him giving me space I didn't ask for and don't want.

"You don't have to stay away, you know. I feel better when you're close. I still don't work right, and it won't change that, but it doesn't matter. I want you near." And since I'm not entirely a monster, I offer him an out, feeble though it is. "If you want to be near me."

Edward turns at last, and the haunted look that's been shading his beautiful face since I emerged from my room this morning finally starts to lift. It's not completely gone, but he looks lighter somehow—not happy, but less grim. I guess I'll take that as a yes.

Since we're clearing the air, there's one more topic I need to address.

"Can we talk about what I'd like to do next—as you put it?"

His expression shifts to panic, and he starts to protest.

"Bella, please, I don't think—"

"No, this will be fast." I think I know what he's worried about, and I hope to dispel his fear quickly. "I don't want to go anywhere. I want to stay in Forks with you and your family."

"You do?"

Suddenly, I realize his family might not be feeling so welcoming toward me anymore.

"That is, if you don't think they'll mind."

"No. No! Of course they won't mind—they'll be thrilled." A smile teases the corner of his mouth, and for the first time since I woke up as a vampire, I feel like I've done something right.

I'd like to hide out in this meadow for the rest of time, but I know that isn't possible. I can't put it off any longer.

"I think we should go back."

_I need to talk to his family._

* * *

Edward and I say nothing as we make our way through the forest. I'm glad. He'd probably try to stop me if he knew what I intend to do. As we step out of the tree line and onto the manicured lawn, he speaks at last.

"Everyone's waiting in the dining room." He looks confused. "You want to talk to them?"

"Yeah, but how—" He cuts me off with a single-word explanation.

"Alice."

_Okay, I'm not sure what to think about that._

I've recovered snippets of memory in which Edward talked about Alice's ability, but experiencing it firsthand is unnerving. I'm sure it comes in handy, but I don't like the feeling of someone else knowing what I'm going to do before I do it.

"Okay, then. I guess we should join them."

Edward holds the door for me but refrains from guiding me through the threshold by the small of my back, as was his habit when I was human. We haven't touched since Bella's Gigantic Tantrum—as I've come to think of it—and that's probably for the best. I'm not ready for that kind of intimacy, and I don't want to lead him on.

Everyone is seated and silent as we enter the dining room. Alice, Esme, and Emmett have warm, inviting expressions; Carlisle and Jasper betray nothing with pointedly neutral facades; and Rosalie's glare is openly hostile. I wonder if she always looks unhappy, or if I just bring out the worst in her.

The chair at the foot of the table is unoccupied once again, and I reach for it—stopping myself at the last moment. I glance at Edward, and he pulls it out for me wordlessly. I nod in thanks and sit. I allow myself the space of a deep breath to prepare, but that's it. I need to get this out.

"Thank you for agreeing to meet with me—" I'm uncertain how to say this without being rude to Alice. "Although, I guess I only _decided_ to ask you and haven't _actually_ asked you yet. But you're here anyway, so . . . thanks?"

_Stop babbling, Bella._

Alice looks pleased with herself, though I'm not sure that's the reaction I would have, were I in her shoes. Emmett appears to be holding in a gigantic laugh—at least I'm pretty sure it's a laugh, since he can't possibly be constipated. Carlisle's expression warms the slightest bit.

"Edward and I have discussed some things, and since it involves everyone, I wanted to make sure we got your opinions, too." I glance at Edward, and he looks mildly put-out but content to let me continue. "But before we talk about that, I need to say something to you all."

The nervous ball rolling around my stomach is getting bigger, and I feel like I might throw up. _Is it even possible for a vampire to vomit?_

_Not the time to ask_.

"I just wanted to say I'm really sorry about what you might have overheard yesterday. You've been nothing but welcoming and kind, and I had no right to throw that kindness in your face. I said some horrible things about you, about Edward—" I stutter his name, remembering exactly how vicious my words were. "—and I want you to know that I'm truly sorry."

There's more I could say, but I don't think I can manage it without losing the elk I had this morning, and I really don't want to mess up Esme's fancy dining room. I don't need to say anything else, anyway, because I'm immediately met by a chorus of supportive responses.

"No, dear, don't apologize for that—"

"You had every right to be upset—"

"We put up with way worse from Sir Mopey-Pants here—"

Almost everyone seems perfectly willing to accept my apology, and I feel the slightest bit relieved. It will make this next part easier. But before I have a chance to continue, Rosalie startles me with her own question.

"Has anyone bothered apologizing to you?"

_What?_

I can't fathom what she means. Is this some weird reverse psychology thing? Because if it is, I don't get it.

"Rosalie . . ." Carlisle admonishes.

At the same time, Esme says, "Let them work it out on their own."

_Why does everyone seem to know what she means but me?_ I look to Edward for some clue, but his eyes are glued to his blonde Amazon sister, and his expression is dark and menacing.

"Leave it, Rosalie," he hisses.

"No! I'm sick of pussy-footing around this. Have you apologized to her or not?" Her crimson lips are curled into a snarl. "Or are you still hoping to find a way to justify what you've done?"

Suddenly, I realize Rosalie's venomous glare has never been directed at me. Edward is the sole target of her hateful words and icy scowl.

"Do you think I don't feel _sorry_?" he explodes, shooting to his feet. "I would apologize to her every second of everyday if it made an ounce of difference—but it doesn't. I fucked up, okay? I know that, Rose! I know it better than any of you!"

I know how badly Edward feels—there's a pile of sawdust in the forest as evidence—he doesn't need to tell me. I want to defend him, but I also kind of want to hug Rosalie. I'm definitely leaning toward the "liking her" end of the spectrum right now.

"Edward, Rosalie—please don't fight because of me." I direct my next words to Rosalie, hoping she can read the sincerity in my eyes. "I know Edward is sorry about what happened to me. But there was nothing he could do. It wasn't his fault."

Rosalie's expression only seems to harden, and I'm shocked by the anger I see there.

_I thought she wanted to defend me. Why is she so mad?_

"All due respect, Bella, what happened to you was Edward's fault the moment he caught your scent and didn't turn the fuck around and walk away. It was his fault the second he opted to stay in Cambridge and stalk you instead of coming home. It was his fault the instant he ignored his brain and let his cock do the thinking for him. It may not have been his teeth that did this to you, but it is most certainly his fault."

The tension in the room is so heavy it's practically tangible; I wonder briefly if I would feel resistance against my limbs were I to move.

Everyone is looking at me, trying to gauge my reaction. Everyone, that is, except Edward. While the entire family looks like they're worried I might throw another epic fit, he's slumped in his chair with his defeated gaze fixed on the table. I have the sinking feeling he agrees with her. They both think I would have been better off if I'd never met Edward.

Shouldn't I agree with them? Shouldn't I—more than anyone—be thrilled with the idea of a life without Edward Cullen in it? I'd be alive. I'd have my family, my friends. I'd have the promise of a future.

And I'd be absolutely miserable. Lonely. Alone.

No. Even this broken half-life is better than that. Though fuzzy and incomplete, the memories I have of my time with Edward are the happiest, most exciting of my life. I wouldn't give those up for anything.

"No," I say, breaking the horrible silence. "I appreciate what you're trying to say, Rosalie, but no. Edward was the best thing about my human life. And so far, he's the only thing that's made _this_ life bearable. So, no. He doesn't have my blame, and he doesn't deserve yours."

I risk a glance at Edward, but he still won't look at me. He looks devastated. I don't have time to examine what that means, because Rosalie has found her voice again.

"Well," she says, leaning back in her chair and addressing the empty space in front of her. "You'll have to forgive me if I disagree with you on that point, Bella." She says my name like it's something slimy stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

And just like that, I'm rushing headlong back to the "dislike" end of the spectrum.

Esme clears her throat with a delicate little cough. "Bella? Was there something else you wanted to discuss? You said you and Edward had talked?"

For a moment I have no idea what she's talking about.

_We talked? What did I want to discuss?_

Then I remember, and I realize the lead-up to this conversation went just about as poorly as it possibly could have. Rosalie looks furious, Edward is practically catatonic, and everyone else seems mildly uncomfortable—except Emmett, who, as usual, looks amused.

"Yeah, I guess I wanted to check in with you all . . . I mean, I wanted to know if it's still okay that I stay here with you. After what happened yesterday, I don't want to make any assumptions about that fact."

"Oh, Bella, don't be ridiculous!" Alice squeals. "Of course you're welcome to stay." She beams at me, and her fingers twitch at her sides. It looks like she's holding herself back from hugging me.

Wise choice.

"Is that how everyone feels?"

"I have one condition, little sis," Emmett says, and I try not to cringe at his casual use of the "s" word. "You have to start spending more time indoors."

Against all natural inclination, his annoying insistence on calling me his sister is kind of endearing.

"I can do that," I acquiesce.

As I look around the table, all eyes seem to be giving me the affirmative to my question, aside from the one pair I'm most uncertain about.

"Rosalie? Is it okay with you if I stay?"

She examines her nails with a deep scowl on her face.

"Do what you like," she says indifferently, and I count it as a victory.

* * *

**Edward**

I hate this.

I can almost see the cascading fall of water against Bella's skin as I listen through the thin barrier of the wall separating us. I imagine the drops kissing their way down, running together in winding paths across pale flesh, and I choke on the bitter jealously that it's not me helping her shower in the next room over, but Esme.

_Esme!_

Why the hell does Esme get to see her naked and not me?

Because she doesn't love you anymore, you idiot.

After our family meeting, Bella expressed her desire to bathe in a place other than the stream on the back of our property. Ever since she crushed the backrest of the dining room chair, she refuses to touch anything in the house. She's terrified she'll break the shower fixtures or unintentionally pull the towel rod off the wall. Honestly, she's probably not wrong to worry. Hence, Esme.

_I could help her! I have the willpower to keep my eyes averted while turning a shower knob._

In spite of my protests, I know it isn't fair of me to expect Bella to be comfortable with me in those circumstances. I might be able to restrain myself from looking, but I'd be doing nothing but imagining her naked behind the curtain—_like I am right now._

_Jesus! Get a grip!_

Of all people, I'm glad Bella chose Esme to help her. Bella could have sought out any of the women in the house, and none would have refused her—but Esme needs it the most. Rosalie isn't particularly fond of Bella since she chose to defend me instead of going on some righteous mission of vengeance, and Alice has the unwavering belief in her eventual friendship with Bella to keep her satisfied for now. Having seen how her visions have played out so far, I wonder how she can be so confident, but I'll let her hang onto the dream, anyway.

Esme, on the other hand, has no such certainty. She's been suffering from Bella's reaction to waking here—struggling with her inability to help the new vampire. She needs to comfort a hurting child the way a flower needs sunlight. And from the thoughts coming from my adoptive mother, she's soaking in that sun right now.

The shower curtain tremors against the rod as Bella asks, "Esme, can you squeeze some shampoo into my hand?"

"Of course, dear."

"Thank you." I hear Bella lathering her hair, and I wish it was my hands massaging her scalp.

_Is it different for her now—bathing? Does she feel the way the hot water warms her skin? Will she notice how the warmth stays with her long after she's stepped out of the shower?_

"I'm sorry to ask you to do this."

"Think nothing of it," Esme replies. "I'm glad to help."

They're both quiet while Bella rinses the suds from her hair. When Esme offers her the conditioner, she takes it wordlessly.

"I feel like such an infant."

I remember the sound of Bella's exasperated cry as she tried to undress. She was thwarted by her own preternaturally strong hands, and the fabric shredded in her grasp.

"It's really frustrating not being in control of my own body."

Esme's voice is calmly reassuring. "Give it a few days, and you'll be able to do this all on your own."

Silence.

"I guess I've got time to practice."

Of course. She's got nothing but time now. I feel myself sinking into the miserable black hole that's quickly becoming a second home, and I shake it off. I want to be present when Bella emerges from the shower. I need to be a source of light, not misery.

"I want to thank you," Esme murmurs through the wall. She knows we can all hear her, but she's trying to give Bella the impression of privacy nonetheless.

"For what?" Bella asks, and I groan at the images that flood Esme's mind.

"For standing up for Edward. For defending my son. I know he's suffering terribly right now, and I can't tell you how much it means to me that you would try to shield him from Rosalie's anger. She has her reasons for feeling the way she does, but I think resentment clouds her judgment sometimes."

I can't think about what Esme's saying. As much as it pains me to admit it, Rosalie was absolutely right. Bella deserves every apology I can give. She deserves a life without me in it. Bella defending me the way she did—saying she doesn't blame me—only made me more aware of how much I don't deserve her. Have never deserved her.

Were I not so utterly devastated by the truth of Rosalie's accusation, I might take some joy in Bella talking about our time together so fondly. Her words ring in my head.

_Edward was the best thing about my human life_.

As it is, though, I can't get past the fact that I seem to have made every possible wrong choice where Bella is concerned.

"Esme, do you think Edward wishes we hadn't met?"

"Oh, sweetie. I know he wishes things had turned out differently for you two, but I have a hard time imagining him ever wishing to go back to his life before you."

She's right. For Bella's sake I should wish we'd never met. But I can't. I'm too selfish to wish for that.

"You didn't know him before, Bella. He was so lost. So sad. I know you're both hurting now, but even through that pain, I feel like I have my son back."

As images flicker-flash in her mind, I know Esme is addressing me as much as she is Bella right now. Her memories of me during the past few years are harsh and bleak. In her mind's eye, I look empty, hopeless. I thought I'd done a better job of hiding the extent of my misery, but Esme saw through the facade, of course.

Those grim memories fade when she pictures me holding Bella as I bring her into the house for the first time—a heartsick vampire carrying his broken, bitten love. Even through my grief, Esme sees the love shining through, sees the way it buoys me.

This hurts too much. It's lemon juice in my wounds. If I were strong enough, I'd leave the house so I wouldn't have to listen to this, but I can't pull myself away from Bella.

Thankfully, they seem to have exhausted the subject.

Bella finishes rinsing herself and says, "All done. Can you get the water?"

The room goes silent, save for the lingering drip-drip-drip of water falling from Bella's body. The shower curtain slides against the bar as fabric rustles between hands. I picture Bella sliding the towel over her frame, pressing water from her hair. I wish I was in there helping her get dry.

"Do you need some help with your clothes?"

"I think I can manage," she says, then changes her mind. "Well, maybe you can do the zipper for me?"

Metallic teeth slide together, and Esme sends me a quick thought.

_We're coming out now, Edward. You might not want to be caught loitering against the wall when we do._

Oh, crap!

I run across the hall into my makeshift room, hoping Bella will seek me out when she's done in the bathroom. I know she's invited me to stay close, but it feels presumptuous to wait in her room. I really do want her to have a space to escape to when she needs it.

"All set, dear?"

"Yeah, thank you. Really."

The door opens, and the women emerge.

"My pleasure," Esme says as she walks down the stairs. "Let me know if I can help with anything else."

"I will."

I hear Bella push her bedroom door open, pausing at the threshold.

"Edward?"

That's all the invitation I need, and I'm at her side in a flash.

"Good shower?"

"Yeah." She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "I wish I didn't need help, though."

I hover in her doorway, uncertain about what she wants to do now.

"Would you like to come in?" she asks, motioning to her room. "I was going to go back outside, but I promised Emmett."

"Whatever you want to do, Bella. Don't feel pressured by that half-wit."

"I have twice as much wit as you, Eddie!" comes Emmett's responding cry from downstairs. "So I guess that makes you a quarter-wit!" His feeble attempt at a joke earns a snicker from Bella. I could kiss my brother for that little gift.

"No, it's fine," she says. "He's right—I should try spending more time indoors."

We step into Bella's room, and I take a seat at her desk while she places herself carefully on the bed. She hasn't shown any interest in touching me since her breakdown last night, and I don't want to get too close without an invitation. If I sit next to her, I'll be tempted to stroke her hair or take her hand, and that kind of affection doesn't seem welcome at the moment.

"Esme's really great," she says, examining a square of patchwork next to her thigh advertising "Bubba's BBQ - Best Ribs in Tennessee".

"She is," I encourage, certain there's more to that thought.

"She makes me think of my mom."

Bella's fingers are laced as she rubs her thumbs together. It suddenly strikes me how much vampire-Bella fidgets. The nervous movement so natural in her former life seems to have carried over into this one. Usually, it's something we have to re-learn to blend into human society, but I don't think she'll have any trouble mastering that particular act.

"I miss them—my parents."

"I'm so sorry, Bella—" I begin, but she cuts me off.

"I know. I'm not saying it because I want you to apologize. I just feel like saying it, you know?"

I understand. It doesn't make me feel any better, but I understand.

"Renee made this for me before I left for college," she says, indicating the quilt. "We used to go on these long road trips during the summertime. She'd drive me out to meet Charlie in California, and we'd stop at random little places along the way. If the spot was really unique or something memorable happened, we'd take a souvenir."

I love this. Bella's told me this story before, but I'm not sure she remembers doing so. I'm afraid to break the spell, so I say nothing. After a while she goes on.

"I didn't have any of those memories when I first woke up. All I had were little scraps of my life, tiny flickers of images or sounds that made no sense. But when I stepped in here last night and saw this quilt, all of this stuff just came flooding back. Not everything—I still don't know what the 'Prancing Pony' is or 'Fuzzy Bill's Wild West Show'," she says, indicating more squares on the blanket. She looks up from the bed, and her eyes land on the dresser. "And that porcelain peacock and the Mardis Gras beads are a complete mystery—but, still, I remember so much more than I did.

"You did that for me. By keeping these things—" She motions to the room. "—by saving them for me, you helped me hold onto something I thought was lost. Thank you. You have no idea what that means to me."

It's hard for me to accept her thanks for anything at this point. All I can think about is the many ways I've failed her.

"There wasn't much time to collect it all. I'm sure there are things you would have liked that I missed."

"Just say 'you're welcome', Edward." She looks so annoyed with me, I do as instructed.

"You're welcome."

Her smile is tight and her eyes are sad, but I have no complaints. I'm here, in her room. I'm not on the other side of the wall—not banished from her presence—so all is well.

She studies the space for a while, as though she's trying to pull more memories from her small collection of treasures. At last, her eyes land on the picture of her and Angela sitting on her desk.

"So, what happened to me—I mean, what's the official story? Did I just disappear?"

I knew this would come up eventually, and I'm not sure how she's going to take it. But she deserves to know, so I try to be as forthcoming as possible.

"Jasper's been keeping an eye on the investigation in Boston. It seems you've either been abducted by or run away with your boyfriend, Edward Masen. Most officials are leaning toward the former."

"_Masen_? But Angela knows who you are. Why would anyone think your last name was Masen?"

"It's what I asked her to say. I was going to be attending school under that name—" She gives me a questioning look. "It's useful for us to change identities every few years. I'd been a Cullen for a while; it was time for a fresh start."

"So you talked to Angela and asked her to lie? She agreed?"

"Yes."

"But what did you tell her? What does she think happened?" A spark of insight flashes in her eyes, and she eagerly asks, "Did she talk to my parents?"

She seems so hopeful at that prospect. She would obviously love an opportunity to see them again, and I hate having to deny her that.

"No, Bella, I'm sorry. Your parents are under the same impression as the Cambridge police—you and your boyfriend both went missing on July 25th and haven't been heard from since. It's really for the best. They're safer this way." I try to ignore how she deflates at that revelation.

"As for Angela . . . I told her we had to leave. That I would keep you safe. That you would miss her."

"That's it? Didn't she want to know why?"

"I indicated something had happened and you would be different. It was the closest I've ever come to telling a human about us—aside from yourself—and she took it surprisingly well. I have no doubt she'll keep our secret."

"But doesn't that mean I could see her? I mean, if she already knows, couldn't I visit?"

The expectant look in her eyes is heartbreaking. I understand the overwhelming desire she has to connect to her former life, but it's not something I can even pretend to entertain.

"No, Bella. Even if you were able to control your thirst around her, it's too risky. It's one thing to let her imagine what has become of you—it's quite another to be faced with the stark reality of all that's changed. It would be incredibly dangerous for her."

"Surely, I'm not that different. I mean, no, I couldn't get on a plane tomorrow. But with practice, I could act human."

"Bella, are you joking? Haven't you seen yourself?"

If she'd seen her reflection, she'd know there was no way she could ever approach people from her former life. The essence of Bella is there, but as a vampire she's luminous—flawless. There's no way she could hide that otherworldly quality from her loved ones.

Her eyes are fixed on the ground, and she doesn't answer me.

"But what about the shower? There are mirrors in the bathroom—how could you miss it?"

She sighs and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, reluctant to answer.

"Bella? Lo—" I catch myself before the word comes out, but my near-slip doesn't escape her attention. She looks up at me and releases her lip.

"I don't know why—I just . . . didn't want to look. I don't know if I'm ready yet." She shakes her head as though confused by what she's saying. "I thought as long as I hadn't seen myself, there was still a chance—" She stops short, and I ache with the meaning behind her unspoken words.

"It's ridiculous, I know! I'm a vampire. It's what I am. What I see in the mirror isn't going to change that."

She won't meet my eyes, and for the moment, it's a relief. I don't know if I could handle the pain I'd find there. She's quiet for a long time, and I think she'll say nothing more. When she speaks at last, her voice is shaky and small, like a little girl's.

"I guess I'm afraid what I see will be too different. If I can't recognize myself, does that mean I'm really gone?"

Once again, I know I've done this to her. I've taken away her family and her friends. I've made her frightened of her own reflection. All of my apologies aren't enough. They'll never be enough.

"I'm so sorry—"

She explodes before I can finish, and the little girl is gone, replaced by a woman with fire flashing in her eyes.

"Now _you_ stop apologizing! I've had it! If you say 'sorry' one more time, I'll . . . I'll let Emmett help me with the next shower!"

Something crashes downstairs and Rosalie hisses, "Don't you fucking think about it, you ape."

Emmett taunts inwardly, _Apologize again, Eddie! Tell her you're sorry!_ and I can't seem to lift my jaw off the ground. Part of me is terrified she might actually follow through with the threat, which has me itching to go rip Emmett's head off. Another part is stunned she might be making a joke about this, and yet another is thrilled she's comfortable enough to use one of my siblings as the punch line. All of me is certain I won't be saying 'I'm sorry' anytime soon. Just in case.

Bella looks like an angry dragon, and I'm amazed smoke isn't curling out of her nose.

"Are we clear?"

I can only nod. I'm afraid any words might be misinterpreted, and I'm not willing to risk it.

"Good. Now, I'm thirsty again, so I'm going hunting." She stalks out of the room without a backward glance, and I'm frozen to my seat.

After a lifetime, Bella's icy voice floats upstairs.

"Are you coming or not?"

* * *

My lovely beta's have the final chapter of Shelter in hand, and I'm feeling a little sad. I really hope you are all enjoying the ride. I can see the end, and though we still have a little ways to go, the thought of saying goodbye makes me melancholy. Love to you all.


	16. Ch 15 History Books

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own new little summer dress that makes me feel pretty.

Dear readers, the responses I've been receiving are lovely, surprising, painful, and heartening too. Each of you seems deeply invested in the outcome of this story, and that is everything I could ask for. Thank you so much for your reviews - I love them all!

To clarify, there will be four more chapters after this. Plenty of time to find some happy resolution.

To my lovely team, **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516**, I wish we could all get together and drink copious amounts of wine. Maybe one day.

And to my twitter peeps - you make this all so much fun!

Suggested listening:  
"History Books" - Dry the River  
"Hints" - Jose Gonzalez

**Chapter 15 - History Books**

As heavy as a history book can be,  
I will carry it with me, oh Lord.  
And maybe when the bitterness has gone,  
There'll be sweetness on our tongues once more.

"History Books" - Dry the River

**Edward**

"Okay, give me another one."

Bella likes to close her eyes for this, but I much prefer looking at her. We're sitting on her bed—well, I'm sitting, and she's lying down. She fingers her quilt as I talk, but carefully, so as not to tear the material. It's getting easier for her.

She's certainly developed better control over the past few days, though she has a hard time seeing the improvement. Jasper offered to take her under his wing, and with some convincing, she's allowed him to help her. It still pains me to think she needs anyone besides me at all, but I can't deny he's a good instructor. He's trained so many newborns—admittedly, for different reasons—his methods are near perfect by now. Unusual as they are.

Bella wants me to decide which memory I'm going to tell her next. I just described the evening we walked home from Black Ground only to find Spencer and Angela engaged in a little after-hours activity on the couch. Bella says she wouldn't mind having that one scrubbed from her brain—I'm with her on that—and she needs something more pleasant to fill the space.

I've been avoiding memories that are too painful or intimate so far, but I'm running out of innocuous ones. Pretty soon I'll have nothing left to describe but the way she felt when I touched her bare skin, or the smiles she gave when I called her "love."

Then it hits me, and I know she'll like this, because it's kind of a two-for-one and has a bit of her parents in it.

Bella's waiting patiently with her eyes closed, and I pretend I'm still deciding so I can take an extra moment to watch her. She's beautiful. She looks lighter somehow, like the weight of the change doesn't sit quite so heavily. There's still a wall there, but it's shorter, and I can occasionally peek over the top. She continues to want me near, and that makes me happier than she'll ever know.

"Let's see . . ." I say, affecting an air of concentration. "Okay, I've got it."

She buzzes in anticipation.

"You had the morning off, as usual, and the weather was completely agreeable—"

"When was it?" she interrupts, and I realize I've forgotten a key detail. She likes to place the events in proper chronological order, as though arranging books in a library.

"The twenty-first. A Thursday." Four days before Tanya. Neither of us say this.

"Thank you."

"So, it was a gorgeous, cloudy day," I say, and I smile at her responding huff. "You rose early so we could have some time in the city before your shift started. We took the train into Boston, and I nearly dismembered a punk who was thinking some inappropriate things about you." My voice grows dark at the memory, and my hands clench at my sides.

"Really? Did I know?" she asks. "Or did you hide it from me?"

She knows me so well. Of course I didn't tell her what had me so upset at the time. I could barely control my rage as it was; I'd have had no hope of keeping composed if I had described the way that human stain imagined taking Bella over the back of his seat on the train.

"You suspected something was wrong, but I didn't give specifics," I answer. "You ran your hands through my hair to calm me, and that helped."

I tremble at the thought of her hands on my scalp. I miss it—the feel of her touch.

"You really did like protecting me, didn't you?" she asks.

_What on Earth makes her think anything has changed?_

"None of this sounds familiar," she continues. "Tell me more so I can get a picture."

I describe the way we got off at Park Street and wandered through The Commons. She told me about the classes she'd taken so far and pointed out the buildings on the Emerson campus she was familiar with. I didn't tell her then—and I don't tell her now—about my months in Boston during my time away from the family decades ago. The murderers I sought out and slaughtered. The would-be rapist I left bleeding on top of Paul Revere's final resting place in the Granery Burying Ground just across the way.

It doesn't seem the appropriate time.

I watch Bella imagining a much more pleasant scene as she lies with eyes closed, and I tell her about how we wandered through the former cow pasture of The Commons and across Charles Street to the more formal landscape of The Public Garden. She smiles at my description of the flowers in bloom along the path and the children playing on the footbridge.

"I think I remember this. Didn't we go on a Swan Boat together?" she asks.

"It was my concession to you," I say, "as I refused to take a Duck Tour."

"You told me you would take me on a personal tour of the city instead, and we wouldn't have to deal with obnoxious drivers dressed as vikings or people quacking at us from the street."

She laughs, and I grin at her recollection, even as it saddens me I never had a chance to give her that tour. I love it when she remembers something. She lights up—firecrackers shooting off sparks in her mind.

I continue my story, being as specific as possible. Occasionally, she helps with details she recalls.

_There's no line for the Swan Boats on the little pond in the middle of The Public Garden. It's early on a weekday, and I assume most tourists are opting for indoor activities on this dreary morning. Few besides tourists would have much interest in the silly, man-pedaled crafts—no one besides my Bella, that is. It seems she has a soft spot for hokey adventures, which is simply one more thing to love about her._

_We approach the older woman with poorly-dyed black hair behind the ticket booth. She eyes us warily and, in a gravely Southie accent, says, "Five-fifty. No refunds for rain."_

_I flash a bright, toothy smile at her, and she blanches, falling silent. A bored-looking boy sits propped against the giant swan frame decorating his vessel; he smiles when he sees us. He's lean with long, sandy-blond hair, blood-shot eyes, and a distinctly herbal scent._

Dude, _he thinks_, talk about pale. Guy needs some sun. _He motions for us to take a seat on one of the wide benches. I might reconsider allowing Bella on a vessel with an obviously compromised captain—if the pond weren't all of three feet deep._

_"Probably won't have any other takers," he says, glancing at the sky. "Might as well get a move on."_

_He's silently curious about what we're doing on the pond this morning—his usual customers are "fanny packs, blue hairs, and brats with nannies". But he doesn't really care as long as it gives him something to do and a little time away from the "she-dragon" back on the dock. He slips into the bike seat in the back of the boat and sets off._

_I wrap one arm around Bella's shoulder and hold her hand with the other. She wears a satisfied smile as we make a lazy circuit of the pond. We round the tiny Turtle Island, where turtles do indeed lounge, and watch the ducks and geese foraging on the edge of the water. We're far enough away they don't take any notice of me—which is good, because Bella seems to enjoy watching them._

_After a while she says, "I brought my parents here once. They all came out for Thanksgiving last year, and I forced them to do all of this obnoxious, touristy stuff with me."_

_She looks like she's in another place, and I smile, knowing a story is coming._

_"But the pond was nearly frozen, and the boats were shut down for the season. Last winter was horrible. The storms started just before Thanksgiving and didn't end until March. It was too cold to be outside, so we went over to the Pru instead, and I took them to the Top of the Hub."_

_For obvious reasons, I've never been to the restaurant at the top of the towering Prudential Building, but it's supposed to offer the best view of the city._

_"It was late afternoon," Bella continues, "and we'd already eaten lunch, but Angela told me we had to try the fresh-baked cookies there."_

_I rub little circles against her palm and wrist and revel in the way her heart speeds just the slightest bit._

_"Okay, I know you won't appreciate this," she continues, "but I am not kidding when I say these were the best cookies I have ever eaten. There were a dozen of them—all different flavors—and they were soft and melty and hot from the oven. It was like tasting heaven._

_"Everyone was feeling festive, so Phil and Renee ordered these crazy martinis, and Charlie even tried a couple 'craft beers'. Half an hour in, Renee was trying to convince the piano player to sing Billy Joel, and all the stuffy patrons were looking horrified. I was gorging myself on another round of cookies, and Phil and Charlie were arguing whether the Cubs or the pre-World Series Sox had the most long-suffering fans."_

_I chuckle at the scene Bella paints and nuzzle her temple with my nose and inhale. I love the soft flesh there, just next to her brow._

_"By the time we walked out of there, we'd spent over a hundred dollars on cookies and cocktails, Renee was three sheets, and Charlie was fuming. It was the most fun I've ever had blowing that much money on something so completely frivolous."_

_Bella's smile is blissful and bright as the young boat-pedaler finishes his circuit of the pond and pulls up to the dock._

_"Want to go again?" I ask, and she nods enthusiastically._

_I turn to the kid and discreetly hand him a hundred dollar bill._

_"Keep going until the lady is satisfied, all right?"_

_He seems more than happy with the arrangement, and since there are no other patrons waiting for a ride, he does as asked._

_Bella leans into me and sighs. We circle the pond half a dozen more times in silence. When she finally expresses her fulfillment, I signal to the kid, and he pulls up to the dock once again. I exit the boat first, then offer Bella my hand just as the first drops of rain start to fall._

_As she steps onto the platform, she asks, "What am I thinking now, handsome?"_

_I make a guess even though it'll be wrong. It's always wrong. I content myself knowing whatever it is, it's a happy thought._

_We kiss under falling skies as stragglers in the park run for cover. Her hands find my neck, and I pull her close, losing all sense of time._

_Neither of us mind the rain._

Bella smiles through the recollection, but when she opens her eyes and looks up at me, her grin falters the slightest bit. This happens more often than I'd like to admit. It seems she's able to get lost in the memory, but coming back to reality is difficult for her.

"That was a good one," she says as she sits up. "I remember that day with Mom and Dad. Top of the Hub was so out of Charlie's comfort zone, and the beer only helped loosen him up a little bit. I think he made me promise 'no more fancy places' for the rest of the trip."

She stands and moves to the window, gazing silently into the forest. She often needs some time to process things after one of our memory sessions, so I let her be.

It's late in the day and the sun is starting to fall. Emmett and Jasper are playing a video game downstairs, and Alice and Rosalie have yet to return from a shopping trip to Seattle. Carlisle is in his office reading, and Esme is working on her plans for the new cabin back in Denali.

Everyone's been feeling a little stir crazy, cooped up in the house these past few days. The cover story is they're still in Alaska, so they can't exactly go parading around Forks. I know Carlisle, in particular, is missing his practice—but he'd never complain. They're all willing to take as long as Bella needs.

I can't see us making a move before she feels comfortable in her own skin, but perhaps I should mention something soon. I want her heavily involved in any choices that concern her, and this definitely counts.

While Bella sifts through her memories, I think about that kiss in the park. I feel her lips caress mine—feel her soft body molded into me—and the embers inside my heart flare, warming me the slightest bit.

Sometimes getting lost in the past isn't so bad.

* * *

**Bella**

_It's time. I can do this._

The bathroom is still full of steam from my shower, so I have at least a few minutes to prepare myself while the fog clears from the mirror.

_I'm gonna look._

Esme is gone, and I can hear Edward pacing in his bedroom. He thinks he's being sneaky, but I know he sits outside the bathroom while I shower. At some point while I get dressed he moves to his room and acts like he's been there the whole time.

_Doesn't he realize I have vampire hearing now?_

I don't mind that he lingers outside the bathroom. He can't see anything from the hallway, and if he wants to be close, that's fine with me. Honestly, as much as I like Esme, I'd prefer it was him helping me—if not for the whole nudity thing.

I wonder if I should call him in here. What if I freak out at what I see, and I need him?

_Then he's exactly point two seconds away from you, and he'll get here soon enough, you dolt._

This is something I should do on my own. I can't rely on Edward for everything. I need some independence.

"Edward?"

_So much for independence._

He's in the doorway in an instant, and I smile at my faulty estimate—it took less than point two seconds.

"Can I do something for you?" he asks.

You'd think the eager puppy routine would get old, but it doesn't. I like the familiarity of that expectant, helpful look on his face.

"Yeah," I say, wringing my fingers together. "I think I'm going to take a look now, and I just thought it'd be nice to have some company."

_God, I'm probably the only vampire in the world who fidgets. Even undead I'm not graceful. What a gyp. I bet I look the same; I don't know what I'm worried about—_

And then I do look, and—_Oh, my God_—I'm so not the same. For a moment, I think a stranger has snuck into the bathroom, and I wonder who she is. But I know. I know it's not a stranger. I know that thick mahogany hair dripping down those smooth shoulders is mine. That pale, radiant skin. Those ruby eyes. All mine.

I can see me in there—in the shape of my chin, the fullness of my lips—but it's like I've been buffed and polished into something sleek and shiny and foreign. Paste jewelry magically transformed into diamonds.

I explore my features, watching as my fingers run across my perfectly-shaped brows and absent freckles on my nose.

"Are you okay?"

_Am I?_

I'm not sure. I don't know how I feel. Relieved I'm not hideous or homely? Sad I'm so different?

I think mostly I feel numb—I don't feel anything. And that's scarier than if I had the urge to jump for joy or smash the mirror.

I say nothing.

"Bella?" He sounds so concerned, and I know I need to answer him soon.

"I think—" I begin, but I'm not sure how to finish that sentence. I have to stop looking in the mirror. It's not helping.

When my eyes find Edward, I feel better. He seems to know who I am, even if I don't, and that's comforting.

"Will you—"_ Is this wrong? Am I making a huge mistake?_

_I don't care._

"Will you please hold me?" I ask at last.

He looks confused and scared and then so, so happy. I know he wants to rush to me, but he takes his time, stepping across the room at a measured pace and giving me a moment to reconsider. When I say nothing, he pulls me into his embrace, and I know I made the right choice.

_This feels better. This feels good._

As his arms circle me and my head rests in the crook of his neck, I know denying him this has only hurt both of us. I don't know if I can ever find myself enough to love Edward again, but maybe feeling loved by him will be sufficient.

* * *

"I'm done! No more!"

"Come on, Bella, just try it one more time. You're getting close—"

"_No!_ I told you, Jasper, I'm finished for today!"

Our training session has ended abysmally, and as usual, that means I'm throwing a tantrum. I can't seem to get control of my emotions—they swing around so wildly. Maybe once I have better control of my body, my emotions will follow. But I can't even imagine the day I don't fear for the furniture and fixtures in the house, let alone feel myself calm and at peace.

Thankfully, Jasper senses it's time to relent and says nothing more. I'd hate to have to resort to violence with him, but I will. The spidery network of scars that cover his body still make me nervous, but not enough to keep me from pushing back if pressed too hard. Anyway, I've done much worse than yell, and he hasn't hurt me yet.

There's not much of an audience today, for which I'm thankful. Emmett always likes to be out here—he never misses an opportunity to see the newborn freak out—but Rosalie is in the garage, and Carlisle and Esme are otherwise occupied in the house. Edward is nearby, of course. As is Alice.

I know I'm more tense than usual, and it's probably because of what I have planned next. I can't believe I'm going to do this, but it's time. She's been patient with me, and I really need to talk to someone.

Edward looks like he's gauging my reaction to the possibility of being hugged, and he's wise to resist the urge. I need a little space.

"Alice? Can I talk to you?"

Everyone except Alice looks surprised. Of course she isn't surprised; she knew exactly what I was going to do the moment I decided.

_I should just ask her now how it all turns out and skip the middle_, I think bitterly.

But that's not fair, and I know it. She can't help what she sees. If Edward could read my mind, would I be as cruel to him as I am to her? I feel bad thinking about the answer to that.

Since Edward can't read my mind, and I haven't spoken more than a dozen words to Alice since I woke up over a week ago, everyone besides the psychic is understandably shocked by my request.

She smiles and nods as she approaches.

"Want to go hunting?" she asks.

"Yeah, that sounds good."

Edward looks like he's holding himself back from demanding what all of this is about. I take his hand and give it a squeeze to reassure him.

"I just need some girl time, okay?"

"Of course," he says as his scowl vanishes. "Anything you need."

But as Alice and I run in the woods, I'm sure he's wondering if he could get away with following us. Thankfully, he's smart enough not to find out.

We run side by side about halfway to Seattle before I feel ready to slow down and talk. I'm not really in the mood to hunt, and I'm pretty sure she knows it. I stop at a gigantic petrified log next to a stream and pace uneasily for a minute. Alice waits patiently for me to start.

"So, how does this work?" I ask at last. "Do you already know what I'm going to say? Do I even need to talk?"

_Jesus, Bella. Do you have to be so hostile?_

I have to remind myself I'm the one who wanted to talk to her. She doesn't have to put up with my bitching. And I do need her. I can't talk to any of the boys about this, Esme will only tell me what I want to hear, and Rose—yeah, that's a nonstarter. So Alice it is. She's what I've got, and I need to be nice.

"I'm sorry. This is just really hard."

Alice smiles sadly, and for the first time she doesn't look like some obnoxious bouncing pixie to me.

"I know I make you uncomfortable, Bella. I wish you didn't feel that way, but I understand. It's just going to take time. I can be patient."

She's being so nice; now I feel like a monumental ass.

"Will it help if I pretend we're having this conversation for the first time?" she asks.

I respond with my own question. "I don't know—what did I say in your vision?"

"'I don't know—what did I say in your vision?'"

She smiles cheekily, and I burst out laughing. This conversation is like an Escher drawing—a circular, upside down labyrinth. It's so fucking awkward, it's hilarious.

"Okay, okay," I say when I catch my breath. "Let's just cut the psychic talk and pretend you don't know what I'm going to say."

"Great." She looks at me expectantly.

Now that we're getting to the heart of the matter . . . I have absolutely no idea how to phrase this question.

"I changed my mind. Please tell me what to do without making me say this out loud."

She snickers, but doesn't take pity on me. "You can do it, Bella. Put on your big girl panties."

I groan, but I know she's right. I can't cop out of this.

"Okay, fine. It's about Edward."

"Mm-hmm," she intones.

"I want to know if you think what I'm doing to him is unfair."

"And what is it you're doing?"

Ugh. Why do I have to talk to his sister about this?

"Being affectionate. Touching. Holding hands."

"Why would that be unfair?" she asks evenly.

"Because it doesn't mean the same thing to me as it does to him." I know he wants more than I can give him. I just really need a friend.

"What do you think it means to him?"

"Well, I don't know," I hedge, though I do. "I guess he might think it means progress. Intimacy."

"And you don't think it means progress or intimacy?" she asks as though the answer is obvious. Of course, holding Edward is intimate, but that doesn't mean I want to kiss him.

"Not in that—_hey!_ You've answered every single thing I've said with a question! Knock it off!"

"You sure did let me go on for a while," she says with a smirk.

"Please, Alice." I'm pacing once again. "You seem to know him better than almost anyone. Am I setting him up for heartbreak? What if I can't ever feel the way he feels about me?"

She levels her gaze at me, and all of the humor is gone from her eyes. It stops me short. I've never seen her look so . . . scary.

"Don't you think Edward is aware of that possibility? Do you honestly think Edward would prefer you act cold and distant when you don't really feel that way?"

"You're doing the question thing again," I mumble, still uncertain about the way she's watching me.

"I know, and I'm sorry," she says with a sigh. "I just don't know any better way to give you the answers you want."

She sits down on the ancient log and pats the space next to her. It feels very intimate, and I'm not sure I want to encourage her in that way. But she's helping me, to the best of her ability, so I comply. I meet her eyes, and there's a sadness there I can't ignore. Seems I'm disappointing everyone these days.

"I'm pretty sure you're aware of this, but let me be absolutely clear: Edward is in love with you, Bella. And he's a vampire. We don't change easily or often, but when we do, the changes tend to stick. Moving forward, there will never be a time when Edward is not in love with you."

This is what I was afraid of. And, if I'm honest, a little hopeful for.

"You're going to hurt him either way. Pulling away from him, or giving him affection that only means friendship to you—it's going to hurt. So either you choose to hurt with him, or you help him hurt a little less."

_This is like some horrible Buddhist riddle! Why can't she just give me the answers I want?_

"Can't you just tell me if I'm going to love him again?" I plead. "It would make everything so much easier if I could just know that one thing."

She shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Bella, but you haven't decided yet."

As we head back to the house, I still don't know what to do. Some psychic Alice turns out to be—can't even give me a decent fortune.

Still, something seems to have shifted between the two of us, and I don't feel so reluctant to let her in. She seems to genuinely care about me, and she's not pushing for that sisterly bond like I've been fearing. She just wants to help. That's definitely something I can use a lot of right now.

Edward is waiting for us at the property line, and I laugh to myself. He's so eager—I don't know how his pride allows it. If it were me, I'd try to protect myself a little more. I stop short at the thought.

_That's what I've been doing, isn't it—protecting myself? Keeping everyone at arm's length? And how has it helped me so far? Name one good thing that has come from pushing these people away._

_I can't do it._

Edward's eyes shine in anticipation as I approach. All he wants is me. So I give him all that I can in this moment, and I take his hand.

* * *

Fic Rec: Go check out the FicThisGif entries! They're great! Fanfiction . net/u/3958398/FicThisGifAnonContest (close spaces)


	17. Ch 16 Go Slowly

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a gorgeous new tattoo!

Thank you for reading, reviewing, following, and recommending this story. Love to you all!

After a ton of deliberation, I've decided to re-write the last few chapters. It will make for a better ending, I think, and perhaps give us a chapter or two more than I initially intended. It does mean posting may slow up a bit as I write and my betas catch up. I'll do my best, but please be patient if posting is closer to once a week.

Thank you **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516** for putting up with my indecision! Your hand-holding has been invaluable!

Suggested listening:  
"Go Slowly" by Radiohead

* * *

**Chapter 16 - Go Slowly**

Oh Maria  
Come slowly  
Come slowly to me  
I've been waiting  
Patient  
Patiently

I didn't know it  
But now I can see  
That there's a way out

"Go Slowly" - Radiohead

**Edward**

"This feels weird without popcorn."

Bella is snuggled against me, and I don't think I've been happier. My siblings have given her pride of place in the center of the oversized couch in the family room—it's her first attempt at joining us for a "typical family evening", and everyone wants to make sure she feels welcome.

"I'm sure we could find some if you really want, Bella," Emmett offers. "Might stick in your throat a bit, though."

"I don't actually want popcorn, you goof," she says, rolling her eyes at him. "It's just that whenever Angela and I did a movie night, we had snacks. My hands feel empty."

Silently, I fill her hands with mine.

"Jasper, they eat squirrel in the South, right? Go rustle up a nest so Bella has something to snack on," my idiot brother says, and everyone—save Jasper—laughs.

"Bowl full of squirrels—that's a disturbing image," Bella says.

Everyone is silent as they picture it, which brings forth another round of laughter.

"And that's my cue to leave," says Esme.

"Wait, you're not staying?" Bella asks.

"Afraid not. _True Blood_ isn't really my cup of tea."

"Ba-dum-cha!" I can't help it. That was a horrible pun—intended or not.

"Mine either," Carlisle says, ignoring me. "I have some medical journals to catch up on. Have fun, kids."

The couple leaves hand in hand, and I suspect Carlisle's "reading" may last only as long as it takes Esme to undress. I don't comment, and neither will anyone else. It's an unspoken rule that we offer everyone as much privacy as possible—except Emmett, who makes no effort to hide his sexual prowess.

"Wait. _True Blood_?" Bella says. "That's what we're watching? Isn't that a—"

"Vampire show?" Alice interjects. "Yes, indeed."

"We like to keep tabs on what Hollywood is saying about us, Bella," Jasper says. "You know, just in case anyone seems to be getting too many details right."

"That is so not why I watch it! Have you seen Alexander Skarsgard?" Alice asks Bella conspiratorially.

"Hey!" Jasper protests, and Alice hushes him with a kiss.

"He's tall and lean and blond . . ." she murmurs, stroking his face. "And he has absolutely nothing on you."

That seems to pacify Jasper for the moment.

"I like it when the vampires go _pop_!" Rosalie says with a dark intensity, and the room goes silent.

"You are one twisted lady, Rosie." Emmett pulls her into his lap. "But that's what I love about you."

Bella and I are stuck between the two couples, who are now thoroughly engaged in their own romantic pursuits, and I feel her tense up.

_Great. Bella's first venture into family time, and they're all going to spend it making out._

I need to break this up before she decides to bolt. "Can we watch this now, please?"

A few of my siblings have the sense to look sheepish and throw out a silent apology as they disentangle. Bella and I may be more affectionate these days, but neither of us needs reminding that her feelings for me do not stretch beyond the platonic.

Sometimes I wonder if I'll have to spend eternity as her best friend—her favorite brother. Would fate be that cruel? Then I ask myself if it would it be worse than not having her at all?

_Absolutely not. I'll take whatever Bella is willing to give, so long as she's here._

Emmett fiddles with the remote and starts the show. Bella relaxes into me again after the credits roll, and I try to focus on the screen. Really, I'm listening to my love's steady breath, feeling the way her body molds into mine, and reveling in her new scent—sharper, less earthy—but no less enjoyable.

_Looking mighty cozy there, bro. Nice._

Emmett's commentary is to be expected. He's convinced Bella's feelings will mature any minute now, and he's constantly pointing out moments that signify such a development occurring. I ignore him, and thankfully he returns to watching the show.

In truth, everyone in the family ascribes to Emmett's line of thought, and it heartens me, though I can't allow myself to hope for such a thing. I can't let the thought take root—it would be too painful to extract if proven false. Instead, I enjoy what I have with Bella, and try to make this existence as happy as possible for her.

"Oh! She's telepathic!" Bella announces halfway through the show, when the protagonist makes her ability clear. "Now I see why you guys watch this. Mind readers and vampires—is there a psychic or an empath, too?"

"Seriously, Bella, it's all about the hot boys," Alice says.

Rosalie interrupts, "And the love triangle. We all want to see who Sookie ends up with."

"Well, that's easy," Bella says, though this is the first time she's seen the show. "Obviously, she's supposed to end up with Bill."

"—Eric," Rosalie says at the same time. "Wait—are you serious? The uptight dandy over the hot bad boy?"

"Of course. Eric is just a temptation. Bill is true love."

The room goes quiet, and I don't need to read minds to know what everyone is suddenly thinking. God, I wish they'd just turn their thoughts off sometimes.

_Yeah, yeah, I'm the uptight dandy. Looks like it's working out great for me so far._

Thankfully, Bella doesn't seem to notice the sudden pregnant silence, and we watch the rest of the show without comment.

"That was fun," she says after the others have retreated to their rooms for the night.

They all feel more amorous after watching _True Blood_, and I expect we'll be suffering through the sounds of their coupling all night. Perhaps it would be best if we left the house. At this point, Bella is no stranger to it, but she certainly doesn't revel in the sounds of my family in congress.

"Yeah. I'm glad you liked it," I say, ignoring Emmett's internal treatise on Rosalie's breasts. "It means a lot to them. And me."

Bella's desire to touch me is as mercurial as the moon. Close one minute, remote the next. With the noises coming from upstairs, she's definitely leaning toward the latter, and I feel her uncurl herself from my side.

"Wanna go hunt?" she asks, and I nod. We're outside in a matter of seconds.

As I watch Bella run under the fall of moonlight, I feel happy and free. This is everything I need.

* * *

**Bella**

I haven't been in this room yet, which is strange, because I've been with the Cullens for two weeks, and you'd think I'd have explored the entire house by now. But Carlisle's office has remained a mystery.

Until now.

It smells of leather, furniture polish, and old books, and I feel like I've entered some kind of old world men's club. The only things missing are smoldering cigars and crystal brandy snifters.

I don't know much about the would-be patriarch of the family, other than the kind air he projects and the way Edward admires him. He's given me my space—more than anyone—and for that I kind of love him.

"Is that you?" I ask, recognizing his eerie likeness in the painting over his desk.

"It is."

"And who are the other guys? The ones on the balcony?"

"Marcus, Caius, and Aro. The Volturi," Carlisle says, without expanding on the subject.

"Are they still around?"

"Yes. They live in Italy."

I'm sure there's a story there, but this doesn't seem the time to ask. I have no idea why I'm here. All I know is Edward took me aside after my last practice with Jasper and told me Carlisle would like a word. It feels a little like being sent to the principal's office.

I sit in the chair across from him and wait. It's getting easier to be still these days. I don't feel the need to fidget like I once did.

Carlisle watches me silently, like I'm some experiment and he's measuring the results.

"Has Edward told you anything about the Denalis?" he asks at last, and I purse my lips.

_Tanya. Tanya was a Denali._

"Not much," I say between gritted teeth.

I don't like thinking about her. All that comes to mind when I hear her name is pain and anguish. I lost so much when I was changed, but the memory of those three days stays with me like a cancer under my skin. My reluctance to let these people in can be directly linked to that hurt, to living through that nightmare. How can I trust anyone now, when no one came to my rescue then?

But I know that's wrong. They would have helped me if they could have; there was nothing anyone could do to make the pain stop. After all, everyone in this house has gone through the same thing. It should make me feel closer to them, not make me want to push them away.

Funny how the things we feel don't always make sense.

Carlisle waits patiently for me to come back to him. I guess three hundred years on earth gives you an intuitive sense about what people need. Or maybe that's just Carlisle.

"We've been close to their coven for many years. They ascribe to our particular lifestyle—one of the few groups of vampires I've encountered that does so."

Why is he telling me this? I don't want to talk about Tanya's fucking family.

"Kate and Irina—Tanya's sisters—have expressed an interest in meeting you. They are still mourning her loss, but obviously they have mixed feelings about the entire event."

_Is he kidding? "Mixed feelings"? "The event"?_

He talks about it like someone dropped a red sock into the load of whites. That woman, that harpy, picked me up out of bed—naked—and tossed me around the room like a rag doll. She ridiculed me and made me feel worthless. Then she sliced her teeth into me and left me to burn for eternity. I'm fairly certain any feelings I have for that bitch aren't "mixed".

"They feel very guilty about what Tanya has done to you, Bella. Had they known what she had planned, they would have done everything in their power to stop her. I don't think anyone realized the extent of her feelings for Edward."

"Yeah, well, not much they can do about it now, is there?"

_Ugh. I sound so bitter._ Carlisle doesn't deserve my anger, but I can't seem to help myself. I want to break something. I wring my hands together in an effort to keep from destroying anything precious to him.

"I understand how you feel, Bella, and no one is going to force you to do anything. I simply wanted to extend the offer. The ladies would like to apologize to you in person. If that's not something you're up for—"

"No. I'm not."

I feel the absolute truth of this in my gut. I can't be polite and forgiving while that cunt's sisters offer their condolences for my decimated life. I don't have that in me.

"Very well."

Carlisle doesn't look the least bit surprised by my response, and that cools the fire inside me the slightest bit. He understands—he doesn't think I'm a cruel, unforgiving witch.

"Thanks," I murmur, and he smiles.

Now I feel like fidgeting, and I resist the temptation to run my fingers along his beautiful oak desk. It looks like an antique. I'd hate to break it.

"Was that all?" I feel like I should ask to be excused, but that's stupid._ Isn't it?_

"There was one other thing, if you don't mind."

I shrug my shoulders in acquiescence. As long as we're done talking about Tanya, I don't care.

"Perhaps Edward has mentioned our current situation in Forks is likely to be a temporary arrangement?" he asks.

"Yes. I'm sorry I'm keeping you here—I know you all have lives in Alaska you'd like to get back to."

For some reason I thought I'd be living out my first year here in Washington, but of course that doesn't make any sense. The Cullens have to hide here; there's no real reason for them to be in town, so they're basically stuck in the house or the woods all the time. Edward brought it up a few days ago, looking like he was afraid of my reaction.

His fear was completely unfounded. Of course I understand.

"No need to apologize, Bella. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't broaching an unfamiliar subject."

I shake my head and wait for him to continue.

"How do you feel about relocation? When it's time, would you like to come with us?"

_Oh, God. They're all so careful with me!_ I don't know what I can do to convince them I'm not going to freak out again, short of continuing to not freak out again.

"Yes, I'd really like that."

"Excellent." He smiles warmly, and I have no trouble believing he really means it. He likes having me around.

"And how do you feel about the timing? Would another month in Forks be sufficient for you to feel . . . settled?"

_Is he asking whether I'm going to be used to being a vampire in a month? Jeez, I don't know._

"I don't know how long it's going to take me to feel 'settled', but I don't think it really matters. I can be a newborn in Alaska as easily as I can in Forks. Don't let me keep you here longer than necessary."

He's quiet for a moment.

"How's training going?" he asks, and suddenly I see the doctor in his element. It's like he's taking a patient history.

"Fine," I say, but I think we both know it's not really fine. I'm struggling. Jasper's a good teacher, but I just can't do what he's asking of me. Everyone insists I'm doing great, but it's bull. I still can't walk around the house without fear of breaking everything I touch.

"I can dress myself now," I say, and immediately regret it. What a stupid thing to say.

Carlisle gives an encouraging nod and says, "That's wonderful. It may not feel like it, but it's quite an accomplishment at this stage. You're obviously working very hard."

"Not hard enough to open a door without shattering the knob," I grumble, and he grins indulgently.

"I think we should save the move for when you feel better able to control your strength," he says, adding, "Whenever that is."

I'd almost forgotten what this conversation was about, but it makes sense. No need to wreck two houses.

"For Esme's sake, huh?" I ask, and Carlisle holds his finger to his lips like this is our little secret, though we both know this house holds no secrets.

There's no doubt about it now: I really like Carlisle Cullen.

* * *

"That's good," Jasper says from my side as I release the miniature tongs and drop two sugar cubes into my tea. "Now stir it, and see if you can get the sugar to dissolve without bending the spoon."

Alice has set us up with a full tea service on the lawn—including a new dining table bought just for this purpose. Bone china, gleaming silver, clean linens, and an ornate floral arrangement complete the effect. We come out here daily, and it always makes me feel like Alice in Wonderland—all I'm missing is the March Hare and Mad Hatter.

Edward sits glumly across from me, like the surly Caterpillar. He tends to hover when I'm "training", so he's been banished to the far side of the table. Jasper, on the other hand, is much more adept at letting me do things on my own. The rest of the family is inside, so it's just the two boys and myself.

I manage to pick up the excruciatingly delicate piece of silver and place it into the clear brown liquid, swirling slowly as I focus on the exact amount of pressure needed. The first time I tried this, the spoon bent into the cup and cracked it. I was furious when Alice revealed the china was real instead of a cheap knockoff, but she insists on making the experience as "authentic" as possible.

Who are we kidding? I'm not going to be invited to the Queen's tea anytime soon. Still, all of the skills I'm building do translate into other areas. I even managed to shower by myself for the first time yesterday.

_And it only took three weeks,_ I think wryly. _I'm practically a prodigy_.

As the last of the sugar disintegrates, Jasper tells me to add some milk. The tiny porcelain jug doesn't pose a problem. Once I figure out the exact pressure needed for a given task, I can repeat it easily. Something about sense memory, Jasper tells me. All I know is I'm thankful the handle doesn't turn to dust between my fingers anymore.

"Excellent! Esme might even let you back inside soon," he says, and I ignore the not-so-subtle dig.

After I threw a fit during my first disastrous session indoors, Esme lovingly indicated all future practices should occur outside. Hence the new table. She insists she's forgiven me for cracking her Charlotte Perriand, but I'm sure it's still a bit of a sore spot.

"Okay, here comes the hard part," Jasper says, and I hate him a little bit. It's good he's taken on my training instead of Edward. There's no chance I'll be cuddling Jasper later today, so I lose nothing by taking my ire out on him. Were Edward in his place, we'd both miss out.

"Why do I have to do this?" I whine. "It's not like I'm going to be eating human food!"

"Suck it up, darlin'. If you want to pass in the human world, you have to be able to do everything they can do. And I have yet to meet a human who can't pick up a cookie."

Ugh. It feels like I've tried this a hundred times, but I just can't get it. The damn thing crumbles in my hand every single time.

It's still amazing Jasper can call me "darlin" without making me cringe. How he's gone from the most intimidating of the bunch to someone I consider a friend boggles my mind. I still don't understand it, but I feel like I belong here. And when we all move to Alaska, I have faith I'll belong there as well.

I take a deep breath and hold it. My fingers flex in anticipation, and I try to encourage them to relax.

_Don't overthink it_, Jasper always says. _Just feel._

I want to punch him in his Zen-calm face when he talks like that. In fact, I did once. Emmett laughed for half an hour afterward, and even then he only stopped because I threatened to do the same to him. When he realized I'm stronger than him, the frequency with which Emmett felt the need to tease me went down significantly.

Ever so slowly, I reach across the table to the towering pile of sweets. Alice has arranged the little pink confections into a pyramid, and I wonder briefly how it would taste if I were to bite into one. They don't smell bad, exactly. Just utterly unappealing.

I find an empty space between two cookies high on the pile and slip my thumb between them, lifting gently upward until my sensitive pad touches the cookie balanced on top.

_Okay. So far, so good._

But this is the tricky part, and I'm dreading it. I'm sure my brows are furrowed in concentration—a few days ago, Emmett told me I looked like Drew Barrymore in _Firestarter_ while doing this, and I threw the plate at him. Audiences have been banned from training sessions ever since.

My index finger lowers toward the top of my fragile pink enemy. I think about keeping my pressure as light as a feather—_don't pinch!_ As the slick icing meets the pad of my finger, I stop.

_Doing good. Doing good._

This is as far as I've ever gotten, and my hope soars. Millimeter by millimeter I raise my hand until the dreaded little disk is hovering in front of my face, and I've accomplished my task. I'm afraid to breathe, but inside I'm whooping and shouting my victory.

"Great job, Bella," Jasper says with pride in his voice. "Okay, now for your final lesson—"

_What? Wasn't that it? I've done the hardest part. What else is there?_

"Take a bite."

_No. No! Haven't I done enough today?_

I groan and nearly lose my grip on the cookie. Jasper can see my reluctance—I don't have to say anything.

"You're going to have to do this at some point, Bella. We can't always get away with hiding food in our napkins."

"_Come on_, can't I bask in my success for one second?"

"You can do this," Jasper says. "Don't be a wimp."

Edward growls from across the table, and his protective instinct snaps me out of it. When Edward starts to coddle me, I know it's time to push myself.

"Fine."

I bring the cookie to my mouth and—just to spite dear teacher—pop the whole awful thing in. I immediately regret my bravado.

_Oh, no. What have I done?_

It's horrible! The texture is all wrong, and it tastes like dirt. It gets worse as I chew, and I gag trying to swallow it down. As soon as it's in my stomach, I want to get it out. I can feel it there—sitting like a mushy lump of something wrong in my belly.

_Oh, God, how am I going to get this out?_

My eyes fly to Edward, and he has the sense to hide any amusement he might be feeling. He can see me struggling and understands what I'm silently asking him.

"Why don't we go for a walk?"

Jasper is preening like a proud parent, and I send him the nastiest glare I can muster. It just makes him beam even more, and I feel a rush of delight wash over me. That's almost as annoying as his beaming smile, and I threaten him with my fist until he knocks it off.

Edward takes my hand and leads me into the woods far enough away to avoid the sensitive ears of the family.

"You're going to have to expel it," he says, and I groan.

I figured as much, but I was still holding out hope he could magic-wand it out of me or something. There's no way my body is digesting this, and it's going to have to come out the same way it went in.

"Turn around."

He does as asked, and I reach two fingers down my throat to trigger my gag reflex. The cookie comes up in a salmon-colored lump, and I spit repeatedly to get the flavor off my tongue.

"That was so disgusting."

I walk a few paces away from the offending pile, and Edward follows.

"You did very well," he reassures me. "Jasper is practically bouncing out of his skin."

"Please tell me that's all he has planned for today."

"Yes . . ."

He hesitates, and I know there's more.

"What is it?"

"Well, I think you just have to see for yourself. I'm sorry, lo—" He stops himself. "Bella."

I don't know if I feel relieved or sad that he no longer calls me "love". I think I miss the tender little pet name. I know he's only doing what I asked, but so much has changed since that night. At some point along the way, Edward's affection has stopped feeling like a prison. It kind of makes me feel warm instead.

His intimation that there's something going on back at the house has me stalling. I wonder briefly if we might escape to the meadow, but Edward senses my reluctance and encourages me to "just relax and have fun."

I hate surprises, and he knows this. As we start back toward the house, I'm almost tempted to force the secret out of him, but he halts that train of thought with his next words.

"I've been thinking about your memories—how we might help you regain some more of them."

"Yeah?"

This definitely has my interest piqued. I seem to have stalled on that front. Edward has gone through our time together in as great a detail as possible, but that accounts for only a single week of my life (two, if you count the one in which he followed me without my knowledge). What about all the other time? There are entire years missing from my memory, and the holes feel like giant chunks that have been torn out of me.

"It's not something we could do for a while," he says as he forges a path through the woods, "but maybe if we track down some of the towns you visited with your mom, it could spark something. We could use the quilt and your souvenirs as a guide. Maybe next year—when you're better able to be around humans."

"Like a vampire road trip?"

He laughs, and my insides do a funny little twisty thing. He's so beautiful, it hurts to look at him.

"I hadn't thought of it that way, but yes. That sounds about right."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," I say.

He takes my hand, and we both smile at the contact.

I can tell something's up as soon as we approach the backyard. My tea table has been taken from the lawn, where it's been set up every moment for the past few weeks (under a protective tarp when not in use). No one is outside to greet us, and the house is eerily silent. Usually there are some signs of life detectable—people talking or moving around the house or moving around _together_.

I wonder if they've left. I turn to Edward, but his face is unreadable. He just squeezes my hand and leads me toward the foreboding structure. I don't want to go in. I'm nervous about what I might find on the other side of that door, and I drag my feet. Literally. I leave huge dents in the grass where my heels dig in.

"Oh, Bella," Edward says with a smile at last. "It's not that bad. Don't be afraid."

We reach to door, and I turn the handle—all by myself! As I walk over the threshold, I realize it really _is_ that bad. I can't believe they've done this.

As a unit, six vampires gathered in the formal living room shout, "Surprise!" and my eyes go wide as I take in the whole horrific scene.

Everyone is dressed in fancy party wear, leaving me—in my jeans and Teletubbies t-shirt—feeling severely underdressed, as usual. I know I'm just as beautiful as them, but somehow I still always feel like the "before" picture in the magazine when I'm around them.

I don't take time to ruminate on that though, as there's so much else to be distracted by. Esme's elegant formal living room has been transformed into a garish, festive wonderland. Balloons cover the ceiling, streamers adorned in shimmering crystals float in wild spirals from one wall to another, and every surface is draped in colorful fabric or topped by vases overflowing with flowers.

It looks like a unicorn puked up a sparkly rainbow.

In front of the fireplace is a small table stacked high with shiny, impeccably-wrapped packages, and above it hangs a banner which reads:

_Congratulations!  
You Survived Part One of Vampire Boot Camp!_

All I can think is how much I don't want this attention. How annoyed I am by what that little sprite has done. I swallow down my anger and turn to the dark-haired fairy-girl in the middle of the room.

_I'm going to kill Alice._

* * *

Story rec: "Sperm Donor Wanted" by OzellaMarie - funny, sexy, raunchy drabble fic about a Bella looking for some very "special jizz".


	18. Ch 17 Lovesong

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a wink and a smile.

So, here it is. I hope it's all you've been waiting for. I'll say nothing more, except thank you to those of you still with me!

Thank you to Team Shelter: **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516**. You all deserve a million Sparklewards fanning you and feeding you grapes!

Suggested listening:  
"Lovesong" by The Cure  
"Your Song" by Ellie Goulding

* * *

**Chapter 17 - Lovesong**

However far away,  
I will always love you.  
However long I stay,  
I will always love you.

Whatever words I say,  
I will always love you;  
I will always love you.

"Lovesong" - The Cure

**Bella**

_Okay, fine. It's not really that bad._

When they first spring the whole surprise party on me, I consider turning around and hightailing it to the woods. Then I realize I will only be prolonging the inevitable—Alice will wait for a week, if necessary, to ensure we enjoy her hard work—so I give in and accept my fate.

It's all so silly, but who am I to stop them if they want to celebrate my success? If I'm honest, it feels fantastic to have mastered all of Jasper's required tasks. I'm finally settled in my own skin—unafraid to touch the stair rail, sit in a chair, turn on a light.

"You okay?" Edward whispers in my ear as the family recounts various Moments from Bella's Training Days. It's a humiliating hazing process, but I accept it silently and with grace. And by that, I mean I'm already plotting my revenge on each and every one of them.

"Then she tries to shake the shards of china off her clothes, and she puts her elbow through the grandfather clock!" Emmett says, finishing his current anecdote, and crowing laughter fills the air.

"I'm fine," I say, smirking up at Edward. "Let them have their fun; I have eternity to make them pay."

Emmett eyes me with concern, and I raise an eyebrow pointedly, but say nothing.

Jasper breaks away from Alice and puts an arm around my shoulders, drawling, "You did good, kid."

I only tense slightly at the contact. Jasper is my closest friend here, next to Edward, and I owe him so much. I'll put up with a little discomfort if it makes him happy.

"Thanks, Jasper. You're a great teacher." His approval means everything. As I smile shyly up at him, the gigantic banner hanging above his head catches my eye.

_Congratulations!_  
_You Survived Part One of Vampire Boot Camp!_

"So why does it say 'Part One'?" I ask him. "Does that mean there's more? Please tell me I never have to look at another napkin ring."

"No. No more tea parties," Jasper says, squeezing my shoulder. "But you'd still devour any human to cross your path, and you have no idea how to fight, so there's still more to learn."

My expression falls, and he attempts to reassure me. "Hey, being able to open a door without breaking the handle off is a good start."

"It sounds totally lame when you put it like that."

"All in good time, darlin'. All in good time," he replies, earning smiles and snickers all around. I wonder if I'm going to have to suffer through a party every time I complete a new round of boot camp, and a shudder runs through me.

"Okay," trills Alice from in front of the enormous pile of gifts. "Present time!"

I groan. I really hate getting presents—especially when I have nothing to offer in return. Considering the damage I've done to the house in the past few weeks, I'm already way behind on my debt.

"We don't really have to, do we?"

"Yes, we do. _We_ want to celebrate, and _you're_ going to let us. Anyway, I've already seen it—you love them!" A secret smile plays on her lips, and I wonder what the hell she knows that she's not saying. Alice picks up a box from the top of the stack and hands it to me. "Open this first—it's from me."

I take the shoebox-sized package wrapped all shiny and pink, and I peel the paper off warily. I'm shocked when I see it is, in fact, a shoebox containing a new pair of black Chucks. I look at Alice in confusion, because I know for a fact she does not approve of my choice in footwear.

"If I can't get you to wear a decent pair of shoes," she says, "at least I can ensure the ones you do wear are clean. You just have to promise me you'll throw out that ratty pair on your feet, and I'll never have to look at them again."

I kneel down to put the new shoes on, thrilled with her selection. They'll take some wearing in, but already I can appreciate the feel of the fresh rubber soles and crisp, black canvas top. I grin as I stand up and hand Alice my old pair.

"Dispose of them as you like."

"Ew! I'm not touching those things!" She squirms away from me.

_Just as I expected._

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say, setting them down on one of her gorgeously arranged tables. "I'll just take care of them later."

Alice huffs and frowns until she can't take it anymore. At last, she scoops the nasty pair into the box and tosses them into a trash can. I smile innocently and thank her for the kind present.

"I'm next," Jasper says, and I wonder at the curiously small box he presents me with.

_Jewelry? That would be weird, wouldn't it?_

When I open it, I realize it is indeed a small silver bracelet with charms dangling from delicate metal loops. I'm confused until I look more closely and see the tiny teapot, cup, and saucer adorning it.

"Just a little reminder of our time together."

"That's incredibly sweet, Jasper. Thanks." I examine the bracelet again as I fasten the teeny clasp—_go Bella!_—and notice a couple charms I'd missed before: a little silver heart and a dainty crown. These make no sense.

"A crown?" No way I'm mentioning the heart.

"You always talked about feeling like Alice in Wonderland at that table, and I was sure there were times you thought of me as some evil Queen of Hearts."

Emmett snorts and coughs, saying, "Oh, brother, you are never going to live that one down."

Jasper just shakes his head and ignores him.

"Leave him alone, Emmett, or I'll take you down again."

The hulking brute backs off with a shrug and a wink. Still, I can't help picturing Jasper in an elegant red gown, and I snicker as I embrace him in a big hug. He sputters and coughs and tells me to ease up.

_Oops._

"Okay, this one's for our next movie night," Emmett says, passing me a gift bag that rattles a bit as I take it.

I glare at him when I pull out the _Firestarter_ DVD and a jar of popcorn kernels.

"Actually, I was thinking of a movie you might appreciate more," I say innocently.

He asks, "And what that might be?"

"_Our Idiot Brother_."

Emmett bursts out laughing and shoves me playfully. When I shove him back, he goes flying across the room. This inspires a chorus of laughter from the rest of the family, and I can't help but join in.

"Here," says Rosalie, surprising me as she hands me a package. Wary as I am to open a present from her, I smile as I examine the boxed sets of _True Blood_, seasons one through three. "Maybe you'll see how wrong your first impression was if you do a little more research."

Leave it to Rosalie to insult me while giving me a gift. Things are better between us, but somehow I don't think she and I will ever be besties.

"Thanks, Rosalie. I'm sure this will help me see the error of my ways."

She doesn't appreciate my sarcasm and slinks back to Emmett's side with a scowl.

Esme approaches next, and her two packages are wrapped in elegant silver paper. They're so nicely presented, I almost hate to rip into them.

"Go ahead, sweetie," she says, and I unwrap the first one. It's a copy of_ The Feminine Mystique_, by Betty Friedan, which baffles me for a moment. Then I remember Edward's account of our first date, and suddenly it all makes sense. Esme worked on this book.

"It's a first edition signed by the author. I know it's a little dated for your generation, but Edward mentioned how much it means to your mother, and I thought it might make you feel close to her."

"Oh, Esme," I say, wrapping myself in her arms. "It's wonderful. Thank you so much."

"Open the other," she says as I pull away.

As I take the wrapping off the second package, warm anticipation fills my heart.

"The collected works of Margaret Atwood?"

"Edward said she was your favorite. Books don't often stay with us through the change, but maybe you can get to know her again."

I ache for the love that surrounds me, and I'm not sure what to say. Anything as meager as "thanks" seems too feeble. I try to express my gratitude silently and hope she understands how much this means to me.

The pile on the table is getting smaller and smaller, and I grin as Carlisle approaches me with his gift, knowing it will undoubtedly be something thoughtful.

"Now that you've completed Jasper's boot camp, I thought you might be able to make use of this."

I open the simple package wrapped in brown paper and see a gorgeous leather-bound book with a Celtic design stamped on the front. There's no title or writing of any kind, so I flip open the cover and find an expanse of blank pages in ecru paper so lovely, it feels warm to the touch. A journal.

"Holding a pen shouldn't pose too great a difficulty anymore," Carlisle says, "and writing about all you're experiencing at this time might help you gain some perspective later."

I was right—his gift is incredibly thoughtful.

"Thank you so much." Carlisle and I haven't really established a hugging relationship, so I leave it at that.

I'm nervous as Edward picks up the last item from the table, surprised to see it isn't wrapped at all. It makes sense if I think about it, though—Edward doesn't hide anything from me. It's similar to the simple leather-bound book Carlisle gave me, but this one looks significantly worn at the edges—the way my new journal might appear after years of use.

"I know how you feel about gifts, so consider this a loaner," Edward says as he hands me the book. "I wish I could give you each and every memory back, but since I can't, perhaps some of mine might provide a small substitute."

I don't really understand what he's given me until I flip through the ivory pages and recognize Edward's elegant hand, a script forged in a different time. This is Edward's journal. _Edward's journal_.

The intimacy of the gift, the profound generosity of Edward opening his heart, floors me. It's too much. I don't know if I can take this from him.

He sees my hesitation and presses the book to my hand, saying, "It's just the past five years, and you can give it back after you're done. But I want you to know what you mean to me, Bella."

With shaking fingers I open to a page near the end of the book. I know I should save it for another time, but I'm so drawn to that beautiful writing, those black-inked words, and I want a taste of it.

~.~

_July 24_

_I could easily say my favorite time with Bella is when she sleeps—if only I could count every moment with her as my favorite._

_She's quiet tonight. For the first time since we've been together, her dreams don't make themselves known to the waking world. To me. I like to hear her talking in her sleep. I especially love it when she says my name, torture though it is to hear her calling for me in that other place and not be able to reach her from here in reality. But tonight is a solid quiet, a good stillness. I know she's resting—peaceful and happy._

_I suppose I have something to do with that satiated look on her face, and I can't keep from smiling at the memory. She's so beautiful, I can barely find the words. She's a radiant sun. A goddess. I was fortunate enough to worship her a bit tonight, and I wonder what could have possibly kept me from doing so since the first moment I saw her—impropriety and bloodlust aside._

_To make up for lost time, I hereby decree: Bella must always be naked!_

_Perhaps my love won't go along with such a thing, but I can try, can't I?_

_As Bella fell asleep in my arms, I made a decision. I'm going to tell her how I feel. She may not love me yet, but surely she understands how much I love her? And if she doesn't, I have to rectify that terrible negligence immediately. She's everything to me, and it's time she knows._

_I love her._

_I love her!_

_I want to shout it to the stars!_

_At times like this I wish I could read her mind. If only I knew how she felt, I'd have no fear that I might scare her away. I think I see it there in her eyes—her love for me—think I hear it when she asks me to tell her what she's thinking, but I don't know for sure._

_She's honest and earnest with her affection when I have nothing to offer but my absent soul and her own broken future. I hope she can accept my love. Perhaps she will even return it. Is it too much to hope? I don't know why she would love me, but if it's a gift she's willing to give, I can't bring myself to turn it down._

_Goodnight, my love. Sleep well. When the sun rises, we will both find ourselves in a new world—a happier one, I hope. One in which we'll never part._

~.~

The book nearly slips from my hand as I finish the passage. Instead of letting it fall to the ground, I set it gingerly on top of the pile of presents on the table at my side and let my hand linger on the cover.

This was my last night as a human. The last time I would dream or breathe or feel blood pulsing through my veins. The last moment knowing exactly where I belonged. Somehow, I don't feel sad thinking about it. I feel like smiling.

Edward's love, spelled out so clearly for me here, finally makes sense. As I take in the man who penned these words, the world shifts under me, and I see what forever might look like—if I'm smart enough to grab hold.

In a daze, I feel my hands reach up and lace into Edward's hair. The edges of my vision dim, my focus drawn to this beautiful man and his beautiful heart. After weeks of being wrong, I suddenly feel right. I know who I am. I know where I belong.

Edward is home, and nothing else matters.

I lift up on my toes and slowly—ever so slowly—press my lips to his, a tentative touch that expresses a fraction of what I'm feeling in this moment. The room stills as I pull away. Edward looks startled and uncertain, and I smile reassuringly.

"What am I thinking _now_?" I ask as his eyes widen and pupils contract. He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out, so I take pity on him.

"I love you."

A heartbeat more, and Edward finally comes to, pulling me tight and crushing his lips to mine. Somewhere I register gasps of delight, but I pay them no mind; nothing exists but Edward and me. We are light and love and heat and all that is right in the world. We are together at last.

Forever.

After an endless moment that doesn't last nearly long enough, Edward breaks the kiss and touches his forehead to mine.

"Out. Everyone out. Now."

I sense the family—_my_ _family_—making a discreet exit as Edward covers me in kisses.

"I love you, Bella," he says between pecking kisses that trail over my cheeks and across the bridge of my nose.

"I love you, Bella," he says as he kisses along my jaw and down my neck.

"God, Bella, I love you so much," he says as he pulls away to meet my gaze at last, and I beam up at him.

"I love you, too. I always have. I just forgot for a little while."

"I'm so glad you remembered."

I tug at his neck, encouraging his lips to meet mine again, and he acquiesces happily. In an instant, we are a flaming inferno—the weeks of hurt and pain and uncertainty burning away into spiraling smoke. We kiss and touch and explore with frantic need—as though this is our last moment together, not just the beginning. He clutches my hips, and I feel the thrill of knowing he doesn't have to be gentle, doesn't have to fear for my fragile frame. It opens up a world of possibilities once closed to us, and suddenly I want to explore each and every one of those possibilities.

"Upstairs," I manage to mumble between fiery kisses.

Edward doesn't hesitate, pulling me up and cradling me in his arms as he races to my room—_our_ _room_. Just as quickly, he sets me down on my feet, and my shirt and bra disappear. I laugh at his eagerness, but let him have his moment. He looks entranced, mesmerized by my bare skin, and I stand still as he takes in the view. He doesn't touch me, just looks, and I beam as his eyes widen in awe.

"I've missed this so much," he says in a hushed whisper.

He's like a little kid drooling in the window of a candy shop, and I urge him forward with a curled finger. Hesitantly, he reaches out and puts his hands on my waist, meeting my eyes at last.

"Is this okay?" he asks, suddenly nervous.

"Mm-hmm," I murmur, and though I know the answer, I ask, "Do you want to touch me?"

He nods seriously, then one hand begins a tentative exploration of my belly, ribs and sternum, skirting, at last, to the soft flesh of my chest. He cups my breast, feeling the weight of it, and his other hand quickly joins the first. The desire in Edward's eyes, the way his thumbs brush against my peaks—the sound of our light panting breath mingling together—fills my belly with warmth. That rising heat runs in and out and all around me, finally landing between my legs.

As Edward lowers his mouth to join an exploring hand, electric sparks shoot through me, and I groan at the aroma suddenly perfuming the air. My scent. My desire. He must sense it as well, because he inhales long and deep and moans in response.

It's not enough. I want to see him, too—feel him. I try to pull the shirt from his body, but that would require releasing me from his mouth, and I can tell he isn't willing to do that. So I rip it off, instead, satisfied only when thin shreds of fabric litter the floor.

"You made a mess," he mumbles against my breast. "That's supposed to be my job."

I run my hands over his beautiful shoulders—gloriously smooth, taut skin over lean muscle—and tell him he can make the next mess.

"My shirt and bra are feeling lonely," I add. "Why don't our pants join them?"

Edward's ministrations on my breasts halt as he takes in my question. His hands return to my waist, and his eyes meet mine, the fire gone. There's a distance there that terrifies me.

"Edward?"

"Bella, I—" He studies me, his expression fearful.

_What will he say? Why did he stop?_

"This is a lot, all at once. I just want to make sure."

"Make sure?"

"That this is what you want. Us."

_Oh, no. He's afraid I'll regret it. I told him I love him, and he's afraid I'll take it back. What horrible scars have I left on this poor boy's heart?_

I cringe, thinking of the pain I put him through—the hurt of being right next to me but pushed far beyond my reach. _How did he do it?_ I never would have survived, having him close and knowing he didn't want me. Didn't love me. It would have crushed me.

"I'm so sorry—"

"Don't. Please. No more apologies." He cups my face in his hands and watches me so closely, I feel my insides laid bare. "I just want you to be sure."

"Oh God, Edward, yes I'm sure. I want us. I want _you_. More than anything." My voice is desperate, but he has to understand. I can't lose him now, not when we're so close to having everything. "I _love_ you. _Please_ believe me."

"I believe you," he says, and I can see that he does. Mostly. He takes a step back and runs his hands through his hair. "I just—God, I hate myself for saying this! Can we slow down a bit? Catch our breath? I feel like we're moving at warp speed here, and I need a minute."

"Of course," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I suddenly feel so exposed, and I can't seem to meet his eyes.

"Oh baby, no. Don't hide."

Then he's pulling me close and holding me like I need, and I feel better. I love his skin against my skin. I love being enveloped by his scent.

"Come here," he says, tilting my face and pressing his lips to mine so sweetly, I feel like I might crumble under the weight of his affection.

_It's okay. We're gonna be okay_, I tell myself.

The kiss is slow and sane. It's full of passion, but missing that manic need of moments before. I feel his love settling into me, anchoring me. It's heavy and full. Perfect.

After a while, he moves us to the bed, and we lie on our sides, watching each other. I feel like I'm seeing him with new eyes. He's so beautiful, and he's mine.

_Does he look different?_

It seems like he should. I must certainly look different to him. I've been flipped inside out—how could I possibly look the same?

His hand finds me, exploring my skin hesitantly in a way he hasn't been allowed in so long. I smile at the feel of his fingertips brushing against my side, sliding up and down my arm. His eyes shine, and with sudden clarity I realize he does look different. There's a sadness etched around his eyes that wasn't there before. It's just a whisper. Hardly visible if you don't know what to look for, but I do.

_How am I ever going to make this right?_

My regret is an unfathomable well, deep and dark. I feel myself sinking down, even as the blissful lightness of my joy lifts me up. It's so confusing. Edward must see the struggle playing out on my face because he cups my cheeks and whispers, "Shhhh. . . It's okay, love. We're okay."

"Are we? Really?" I just can't imagine how he can be okay. I don't understand. "You don't hate me?"

His eyes flash in anger, and he says, "Never."

"But how—"

He cuts me off with a kiss.

When he pulls away, I've forgotten what I was going to say. I only have a moment to try to remember before Edward is distracted by something outside. His head pops up, tilting toward the window with a frown.

"What is it?" I ask, but I'm afraid I know. I didn't want them to stay away forever; still, I wish we could have a little more time.

"Alice," Edward says, confirming my fears. "She's here to give you another gift."

"What?" _What is she thinking? I don't need another present!_ "Well, I hope she doesn't expect me to come down there and open it now. I'm not leaving you."

Edward smiles broadly, and I wonder how he can be so chipper.

"No need for that, love. She's already gone."

"Really?" _I thought she'd put up more of a fight._ "She doesn't want to see me open my present?"

"Nothing to open."

Now I'm confused. I wait for him to explain.

"They're all staying away for the week. Time alone. That's the gift."

_I love my family!_

I can't believe our good fortune. My smile is buttercup bright as I tell Edward it's just what I always wanted.

* * *

**Edward**

This is it. Everything I've ever wanted, here in my arms.

My love. My life. My Bella.

We hold each other as night takes its first tentative steps across the dimming sky. We hold each other as songbirds settle in for the evening and nocturnal beasts shuffle from their homes. We hold each other as a sharp wind blows the clouds from their gloomy perch, revealing a glimpse of twinkling, coal-black sky.

I take a moment to enjoy the way Bella's skin glows in the moonlight, dipping my head to taste the light as it falls across her shoulder.

She's heaven in my mouth, fire under my fingers, and cool waves of joy in my heart.

"May I ask you something?" I say, as my lips release their claim on her skin.

"Anything."

"What was it? That made you change your mind?" I know she said she loves me, but if something were to happen, if I ever need to bring her back to me, I want to know how to do it again.

She's quiet for a long time, and I wonder if perhaps it was a mistake to bring this up so soon.

"I don't know, exactly," she says at last, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She doesn't sound upset, just focused—like she wants to get her answer right. "I was reading your journal, reading your beautiful words, and it suddenly clicked. I saw how much you loved me—I could feel it radiating off the page—and I wanted to feel it too."

She pauses, considering. "No, that's not it. I had _wanted_ to feel it all along, but it was like I finally _could_. One moment it wasn't there, and the next it was." She scrunches up her nose and sighs. "I'm not saying this right."

I take her hand and kiss her fingertips, offering my silent support.

"I felt like I was underwater these past few weeks. Do you know how disorienting that was? Everything blurry and unfocused? Not literally, of course. But inside? I didn't know who I was. I was lost. I wanted to love you—so desperately—but I couldn't find that part of me."

She finds my lips and places a soft kiss there. "But your words brought me back to myself. They made everything clear again."

I'm not sure what to say to that. I'm just thankful she did come back to me, at last. My mind believes she's here for good—my Bella, the Bella who knows herself, the Bella who loves me. But my heart is harder to convince. I can't be certain she won't leave me again, but perhaps it's enough to have faith she'll always want to return.

I see what's in her eyes, and I know what's coming next. I don't stop her. She needs to say this, so I let her.

"I know you don't want my apologies, Edward, but I feel terrible for what I put you through. I don't know how I can ever make it up to you."

"There's nothing to make up, my darling girl. You didn't choose this. You didn't choose to stop loving me."

"But I hurt you, and I can't bear the thought. I can't imagine how it would have felt if our situations had been reversed. I don't think I would have survived it."

I can't tell her that I didn't survive it. Not really. I can't say that a little part of me died every second she kept her distance. Because that won't help us; it would only create a rift I don't want between us. And it's not her fault, anyway. None of this was her fault.

"I waited a hundred years to find you. I only had to wait three weeks for you to find yourself again. It's nothing compared. Nothing."

I take her in my arms and kiss her with everything I have, praying for the day when what I've said is the whole truth.

* * *

Okay, lovelies. What did you think? Based on my pace of writing, a Friday update is highly unlikely. Monday might be possible. xoxo

Story recommendation: This week I've been completely pawned by "Thief of Hearts" by Pattyrose. It's not lacking any love, but if you haven't discovered it yet, go and read! (I didn't write it with this story in mind, but her Bella also has a charm bracelet full of meaning). _FBI Agent Edward Cullen knows the assignment: Go undercover & infiltrate the ring. Bring them down. He doesn't bargain on the mysterious thief who turns the case upside down, or on the mortal danger protecting her will put them both in._


	19. Ch 18 Blue Jeans

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own the wide-open spaces of my mind.

Thanks for your patience, everyone. I'm glad I've taken the time to get this chapter where it is, though it did mean a wait for you. I probably won't be much faster with the next one. I'm anticipating two more chapters after this. We'll see.

Thank you, my darling girls, **AmeliaKBedelia**, **darcysmom**, and **Marlena516**, for being in this with me.

Suggested Listening: "Blue Jeans" by Lana Del Rey

* * *

**Chapter 18 - Blue Jeans**

I will love you till the end of time  
I would wait a million years  
Promise you'll remember that you're mine  
Baby can you see through the tears?

"Blue Jeans" - Lana Del Rey

**Edward**

"Oh, baby, you were so miserable." Bella sighs and shakes her head.

I'm leaning against the arm of the couch, and Bella is between my legs—her back to my front—as she reads my journal. One of my hands is resting on her belly, and the other is trailing through her hair. We're both fully dressed, which is a shame. We went hunting early this morning, and Bella insisted on putting her shirt back on—I have yet to find a subtle way to take it off again. We're surrounded by Alice's glittering rainbow apocalypse, and in spite of our state of dress, it matches my mood. Bright. Unrestrainedly happy.

I finger the fabric of Bella's shirt and slip a hand underneath. She shivers, and I hold her tighter.

I love this intimacy. I love that I can touch her again—really touch her. I love that she doesn't shy away from me, but nestles in, enjoying the connection as much as I do. I'll never take this for granted again.

As she reads, Bella sighs every now and then, or laughs. Sometimes, she puts the book down and pauses, considering. Mostly she's silent, but she makes the occasional comment, like now.

"You really hated high school, didn't you?"

"It wasn't my favorite," I reply succinctly.

"Why did you torture yourselves like that? Why not just go to college? Or get jobs?"

I smile at her astuteness. _Why, indeed?_

"We weren't always in school. Often we'd split up, travel, go our own ways for a few years. But when we were together again, it just felt natural to spend our time under one roof. Even if that roof was occupied by hundreds of hormonal teenagers." I chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all. We really had made things difficult for ourselves.

"For a while, Jasper needed our support, needed us around to help him while he adjusted his diet. Then it just became something we did. Moving every few years was a given, but the younger we started out in one place, the longer we could stay."

She runs a hand along my thigh and rests her head against my shoulder, closing her eyes.

"I don't want to do that."

"What? Go to high school?"

"Yeah. I hated high school. I was so lonely. I felt like some kind of alien—I can only imagine how much more pronounced that would be as a vampire."

"I doubt you would feel lonely with me there to keep you company," I tease. "But we don't have to go to high school, love. Honestly, I wouldn't miss it."

"I'd like to finish college. Eventually. But really, I want to travel. I want to see the world." Her eyes fly open and she turns her head to look at me. "There's so much out there, Edward, so much to learn. Can we do that? Will you show me the world?"

I can't resist it any longer. I dip down and kiss her neck, nuzzling with lips and teeth.

"Anything you want," I murmur against her skin. "When you're ready, I'd love to see the world with you."

She puts the journal aside and turns in my lap, moving to straddle my legs. Her hands slide up the nape of my neck as she kisses me. I squeeze her hips and revel in the feel of her warmth. She no longer burns under my fingers, but when we're together like this, a slow-spreading heat seems to overtake us both.

"It's going to be a while before we can do that, isn't it?" she asks as she pulls away from the kiss.

"Yes, love."

"That's all right," she whispers, eyeing me timidly. "I can think of other ways to fill the time."

She gives a tentative wiggle of her hips, and my body's response is immediate.

_Oh God, why do we have so many clothes on?_

She seems to read my mind, tugging on the hem of my shirt. She watches me carefully as she works it up at a measured pace—much slower than I want her to go. I lift up to assist her, and my shirt is gone.

"Is this okay?" she asks.

_Why is she asking that? Of course it's okay!_

She's working with calculated control, and I try not to break the spell, nodding silently.

With careful focus Bella runs her hands across my stomach and up my chest. She leans down, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses across my skin that tingle and burn, awakening every inch of me. I try to keep still, holding back from the desire to thrust up into her—I want her to do this at her own pace.

She pauses with her mouth hovering above my nipple—_holy fuck!_—and says, "And this? Is this okay?"

_There are no words for how okay this is._

"Bella," I groan.

She's killing me with this teasing; I don't know how much longer I can let her go on before I have to take matters into my own hands. But instead of speeding her efforts—as I hope she will—she pulls away, sitting up and furrowing her brows.

"Do you want me to stop?"

_What on earth would give her the idea I want her to stop?_

"What? Why would you say that?"

_Can't she see how much I want her?_

Her eyes are full of sorrow and regret, and I feel like I've been punched in the gut.

"I'm sorry, Edward. I don't want to do anything that you're not ready for. I don't know what's too much. Too fast. I don't know what you want."

At first, I have no idea what she's talking about. _Why would any of this be too much?_ Then it hits me, and I realize what a fucking idiot I've been. I was the one to put a halt to things last night. I told her I needed to slow down and catch my breath. Of course she's confused—I haven't told her what I want.

Enough of this tip-toeing uncertainty.

"I want you, Bella. I want everything you're willing to give. I'm sorry you're confused—I didn't mean to make you doubt yourself. Doubt us."

She brightens slightly, then stills, her eyes widening. "Everything? Do you mean. . . _everything_?"

_Oh._

"Well, yes. Of course. I mean, I want to be with you, Bella." I'm babbling now, but I can't seem to get this out right. Maybe because I'd always assumed "everything" would never be possible for Bella and me. But now? Now it is.

I sit up, pulling her into my embrace. Her breath comes in short little pants, sweet air feathering across my face.

"When the time is right, I want it all, love. I think we're still getting our footing here, but I hope it won't be too long before we can have . . . everything."

"Okay."

She looks embarrassed, and I can tell there's more she wants to say. I kiss the tip of her nose, and she smiles tightly.

"What is it, love?"

"I know there's still a lot to talk about . . . but can you just be kissing me now?"

_How can I say no to that?_

I do as requested, and nothing else matters. Bella and I will get through this. It's just going to take time, and we have all the time in the world.

* * *

**Bella**

_Oh, thank God that's over!_

I know we're both going to need some transition time here, but really, does it have to be so awkward? Even when burdened by the physical limitations of my humanity, this stuff—the closeness, the desire we feel—was never so fraught with uncertainty. Maybe it's because there were things we _couldn't_ do before. I'd never worried about what it would be like to lose my virginity with Edward because it simply wasn't a possibility.

But now?_ Definite possibility._

_Am I ready for that? Is he?_

In spite of what he says, I can see the lingering pain. I know he harbors more hurt than he can express. Will we ever be able to come together so wholly with that ache hovering between us?

Right now it doesn't matter. This . . . noise, this worry floating around in my head falls away under the gentle exploration of Edward's hands. His kisses start slow and sweet. He's being so careful with me, but he doesn't have to be. I want more. I want to stoke that flame I know is simmering under the surface. I want to feel his fire.

I part my lips, and he accepts the invitation eagerly, pulling me tighter. My hands roam, exploring his back and sides. With flickering clarity, I remember how it felt to touch him as a human. He was hard and cold and solid. His strength was comforting—to know nothing could hurt me while I was in his arms, nothing could possibly tear me away from him.

But he feels different now. I can still feel his strength. I know it more intimately now—if that's possible—because I'm so aware of my own power. But he doesn't feel hard, and he doesn't feel cold. He feels perfect. Lean and powerful, but yielding. He feels warm to me. He's always been warmth and wonder in my heart, but now his skin matches that feeling. Outside and in, he's just right.

"Bella," he moans, pulling away from my mouth and trailing kisses down my neck. "My Bella. I love you."

I smile as I tip my head back, allowing him better access. I love the way he says my name. Like a prayer, like an invocation. Like he feels exactly the way I do.

"I love you, Edward."

His hands roam under my shirt, and I'm dying to take it off, but there's still that fear. That lingering uncertainty about how fast he wants to go. For the past three weeks, Edward has circled me eagerly and attentively, meeting my every need. It's my turn to attend to him.

I don't have to wait long to find out exactly what he wants, though.

"God, Bella, you feel so good. Can I take this off?"

I pull away far enough to meet his gaze before replying.

"Please. Whatever you want. Don't ask—just take. _Please."_

He groans and opens his mouth to speak. Then he closes it with a wry smile and nods. He lifts up my shirt, and I raise my arms to help him. I grin from my perch on his lap as he takes me in. No matter how many times he's seen me this way, he always manages to wear that stunned look of awe.

That look of longing—of pure desire—sends a jolt through me, and I squeeze my thighs against his hips in response. He teases with long, elegant fingers—running gentle strokes over my clavicle, down my sternum, and along the sides of my breasts.

_Please, just touch me!_ I want to scream, but this is his show, and I'll let him take the lead. At last, his eyes gleam in mischief, and he holds me around my ribs, lifting up until I'm on my knees, hovering above his lap. I see the advantage of this position when he takes my breast into his mouth, and I gasp in response.

_Oh my God, that feels good!_

My eyes fall closed as my head lolls back, every bit of my attention focused on the sensation. It's exquisite—like warm honey flowing through my veins. I grasp at his shoulders as he continues his ministrations, alternating between hands and mouth—first teasing and soft, then rough and eager.

The more he touches and kisses, the greater the throbbing desire between my legs, and I squeeze my thighs in an attempt to ease that ache. But the space is left hollow and wanting, desperate for contact.

"Edward," I gasp, but he pays me no heed, continuing his slow torture.

"Edward, _please_."

My cry finally elicits a response, and he groans against my skin, releasing his hold and easing me back onto his lap. He's hard beneath me, and I grind down on him shamelessly. It's his turn to gasp, and I register my glowing delight, but I'm too overwhelmed to translate that joy into a smile. I love how he reacts to me. I love the way he makes me feel wild and rootless. Like we're sailing an endless ocean together. Lost. Found.

With overwhelming urgency I find his lips, desperate for greater contact, desperate for the pleasure that teases my fractured memory like a mirage. I want to feel that pulse, that release, again. I _need_ to feel it.

"Edward," I beg, once more. "Please. I need—I want—_please_."

I don't even really know what I'm asking for, I just need _something_. So fiercely. I need _him_.

"What, love?" he murmurs. "What do you want?"

"Anything. Everything. Just touch me, please." My words bubble out of me without thought as I rub myself against him. I am shivering, mindless anticipation. I am a spark before the inferno.

His hand reaches between us, stroking over my worn blue jeans, and I thrust my pelvis against him and sigh. It feels wonderful, but it's not enough. I need more.

"No. Off. _Off_."

He chuckles at my eagerness while I fumble with the infuriating closure of my pants. I forgive him his amusement only because he feels so good between my legs, and I don't want him to stop. When I can't get my fingers to work, I rip at the fabric, splitting seams until the denim is tattered and hanging limply off my thighs.

Edward's eyes go wide, and he freezes in shock.

_Shit._

"I'm sorry," I say, embarrassment blossoming through me. "I just—"

"Don't."

In the instant before his mouth crashes onto mine, something dark and primal blazes in his eyes. Then his lips are on me, and his hand is where I need it, pushing my panties aside and stroking me eagerly. He prowls forward, urging me onto my back, keeping connected by mouths and hands and soft, wet skin. He pulls his hands away briefly—only long enough to rip the rest of the fabric from my legs—then I'm naked, and I breathe my relief into his mouth.

His fingers dip inside me tentatively, and I gasp. He moves his kisses to my neck as my head rocks side to side against the armrest of the couch.

"Yes . . ." I hiss through clenched teeth, and he presses deeper inside.

His thumb finds my most sensitive spot and circles carefully. I cry out at the exquisite intensity. It's so close to being too much—teetering on the edge of perfection and disaster. I squirm under his hand, not sure if I need to pull away or push closer to him. He solves the dilemma for me, stroking deep inside until every muscle in my body is tensed and ready to snap.

"Edward," I moan. "Ungh."

"Oh my God, Bella, you're just—" he whispers through heavy, rasping breaths. "Fuck, you're beautiful."

His words push me over, and I'm plummeting into bliss, falling headfirst into oblivion. The quaking release rockets through me, exploding through my body with glorious intensity. Then everything stills, and I am floating, weightless, mindless. I'm nothing. Empty—head to toe.

When I can feel again, I register bits and pieces of flickering consciousness: the heavy weight of my limbs, Edward's soft stroking hands bringing me down, a swirling kaleidoscope of color gleaming above.

_Oh, God._

_That was. . . There are no words._

"Perfect," Edward says, brushing a stray lock from my forehead and placing quiet kisses across my cheeks. I smile lazily, too happy to bother being embarrassed about my wanton display.

Edward scoots down, kissing the top of my breasts, and I chuckle at the silly smile on his face. He plants himself along the length of me, resting his head on my shoulder and breathing deeply. I am sated contentment to his beaming pride.

"You are so beautiful," Edward murmurs against my skin.

Maybe it's the high of what we just shared, but for once I have no problem believing him. I feel beautiful. I feel loved.

"You're amazing," I say, fingering his hair. "I'm so lucky."

"Silly girl."

We're quiet for a while, basking in our contentment. My eyes wander to the large picture windows and the white clouds blanketing the sky. I was so wrapped up in Edward, I didn't realize it was still daytime. The world just melted away for awhile there. If I'm calculating things correctly, it was about twenty-four hours ago I was standing in this room, taking Edward's journal in my hands for the first time.

Amazing how much has changed in so small a space. After all that pain, things are so right I can hardly believe it.

"Hey, Edward?" I ask quietly, suddenly very thankful for the empty house.

"Yes, love?"

"I know we're not quite ready for 'everything', but do you think we could try a little bit more?"

I squeal as he flips up and pins me against the couch. His eyes gleam with dark mischief, and I quiver in anticipation. Then, before I know what's happening, we're up, and he's flung me over his shoulder—caveman style.

"Edward!" I scream as he carries me toward the stairs. "What are you doing? Put me down!"

I could get out of his grasp if I wanted to, but honestly, I don't want to. I'm enjoying his silly macho aggression far too much.

Edward pats my naked bottom playfully and says, "Not just yet, my little temptress."

"Where are you taking me?"

"We need a change of scenery," he says as he begins his ascent. "I felt Alice's eyes on us in that room."

We are absurd giggling playfulness. We are a long cleansing breath after staggering hurt. I love seeing him like this—light and happy. Eager to connect.

He reaches our room, and I feel him flex, an instant away from tossing me on the bed. I halt his momentum, shouting, "Stop! The quilt!"

There's no chance it will survive the tangled writhing of two virgin vampires. With his free hand, he whips the blanket off the bed, then tosses me down, leaping on top of me before I've settled on the sheets.

"So, my love," he says as he cages me in, "You said you wanted to try 'more'. What exactly did you have in mind?"

My tummy flutters, and I grin stupidly back at him.

"Well. . ." I respond with a slow drawl. Then, quick as lightning, I flip us over and pin his arms to the bed, trapping him. "I was thinking of doing a little exploring."

I straddle his hips, and moisture pools where my naked skin meets his jeans. My scent floats around us, and Edward draws in a deep breath, his smile growing wide. With ease, I slide his arms above his head and capture his wrists together in one hand. He makes a show of struggling, but I can see he doesn't really want me to release him.

All of my previous doubt and worry has melted away. I feel gloriously confident. I know Edward wants me just as much as I want him.

I work slowly, enjoying a lingering kiss before moving south, trailing along his neck to the dip above his sternum. I spend some time there, running my nose along his shoulder and down to his pecs. I draw a nipple into my mouth, reveling in his resulting gasp and bucking hips.

"Patience, cowboy."

I take the other nipple in my mouth and suck hard. This time, Edward groans low and deep, moaning, "Bella . . . you're killing me."

"I'm not done exploring," I say, looking up to meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded and dark, and I smile at the effect my ministrations are having. "I'm going to release your hands, but I don't want you to touch me. Understand?"

He nods and furrows his brow in anticipation. I let him loose, and he lowers his hands to his sides, gripping the sheet in an effort to follow my command. I know this can't go on indefinitely, but I'm having fun being in charge, and I want to see just how far I can push him before he cracks.

Edward knows all of me—he's touched and tasted every inch—but I haven't even seen him. I want my chance to even the score.

My fingers trail along the lean plains of his stomach, lingering to adore the firm muscles under my touch. Every inch of him is breathtaking. I can't believe he's mine. He trembles as my hands reach his hips, and I place a tender kiss on his belly to calm his nerves. Suddenly, I realize I'm just as nervous as him.

"I want to see you," I whisper against his skin. "I want to feel you."

"Okay," comes his throaty reply, and I try to stoke my courage.

_You can do this, Bella. You want this._

My former bravado has abandoned me, leaving me with nothing but anxious desire propelling me forward.

With a deep, steadying breath, I move to undo the buttons on his jeans. I can see his need straining against the denim, and it sends another flood of arousal through me. I decide to do it fast—rip the Band-Aid off, as it were—and in an instant, Edward's clothes are scattered to the ground, and he's naked.

For the longest time, I can't find my breath. I don't know what I was expecting—something awkward and silly and scary, perhaps. And he is those things, I suppose, but more than that, Edward is beautiful. And intimidating.

_Holy crow. What the hell am I going to do with that?_

Edward is watching me intently, looking very much like he wants to reach out to me. But he's keeping his promise, and his hands are still at his sides.

"Can I—?" I ask, running a trembling hand along his thigh. I'm not exactly sure what I'm asking, but he nods, willing to let me do whatever it is I'd like.

_Okay, that's good. At least Edward has faith I know what I'm doing._

Really, I just want to feel him, so I do, running a finger along the underside of his hard length from base to tip. His eyes narrow and his mouth purses together, which I take as a good sign. Maybe?

The texture of his skin is softer than I expected, and I'm curious to feel more. I wrap my hand around him, and his flesh slides under my grasp—silky, smooth skin slipping over his solid length. Edward's groan is accompanied by a ripping sound, and I realize his fingers have torn through the mattress.

_I'm definitely doing something right here._

I smile to myself and continue moving my hand up and down, daring a tighter hold as I do. His hips buck up against my grip with each downward stroke.

"Oh, _fuck_, Bella," he chokes out, and I feel my bravery return.

_He likes what I'm doing—I make him feel that way_. I feel powerful and strong. I feel like some Amazon sex goddess.

Little keening pants are coming from me, and with a start, I realize my free hand has been busy between my own legs. I bite my lip at the lovely sensation. It's nowhere near as good as his hand, but it'll do for now. We move together, hips thrusting in time against my hands. It's like trying to play the drums and piano at the same time, and I've never been more thankful for my preternatural focus. Just as I'm approaching that beautiful peak, Edward starts to move erratically, and I try to find a rhythm in the irregular thrusts.

"Bella. I can't—" Edward struggles to get out. "I'm going to—"

I'm pretty sure I know what he's going to do, and I want it more than anything. I know how amazing it feels, and I want him to feel that way too.

"It's okay. Let go."

I feel my own release approaching and, _God, I want it!_ My fingers move faster between my legs, and I speed my efforts on him, hoping to bring him over the edge with me. His rough groans play alongside my own high murmurs like a beautiful symphony. Just as I feel that sharp ache between my legs burst and flow in a tingling trail to every limb, Edward cries out and releases, hot and wet against my hand.

With a shuddering sigh, I collapse against him as our panting breaths dance together.

"Oh. My. God."

I smile against his shoulder, proud and happy and fulfilled.

"Wow."

He can't seem to manage more than single-syllable grunts, but that's okay. I'm feeling pretty incapable of speech myself.

My hand is still wrapped around him, and I feel him start to soften in my grip. I'm aware of the stickiness between my fingers, but I'm not sure what to do.

"Um," I say, tilting my head in the direction of our joined parts, and Edward comes to.

"I'm so sorry. Let me—"

He jumps up and goes to the bathroom, returning with a warm wash cloth after a few moments. He cleans my hand as I bite my lip to hold back the giggle bubbling up in my throat. This sex stuff is messy business.

"Thanks," I mutter as he moves to clean himself up, and now I do laugh. It's completely inappropriate, I know, but I can't help it. My orgasms have made me giddy and silly.

"Not doing good things for my self-esteem, love," Edward says, but he looks like he wants to laugh too.

"I'm not laughing at you," I choke out, though I kind of am. But not in _that_ way; Edward has no need to fear ridicule for what he's carrying. Still, he looks a little put out.

"Come here," I say, opening my arms wide and hoping he sees it as a peace offering.

He crawls into bed and pulls me into his embrace. It feels wonderful.

"I'm just happy, Edward," I say, tightening my hold on him. "I'm so, so happy."

He nudges the crown of my head with his chin and murmurs, "Me too, love. You've made me the happiest man on earth."

Somehow, I know he's not just talking about his orgasm.

* * *

Story Rec: "Marked Indelibly" by dreaminginnorweigen - I want you to run, RUN to find this story! Dream tells the story of bruised and broken Emmett and Rosalie with such lyrical beauty, it's stunning. These are not your usual Em and Rose. He's the tattoo guy with a past. She's the shy flower girl dying to be brave. Their path to each other is long, winding, and laced with so much beauty it hurts. Go!

Chap notes: The line "Can you just be kissing me now?" was blatantly stolen from_ Buffy the Vampire Slayer_, "Entropy." Did you catch it?

If you liked it, show me some love!


	20. Ch 19 Feeling Good

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own some steamy new chapters over at SmutU—check them out!

Okay my dears, we are rounding on the final chapters. There will be one after this. When I have some time to process it all, I may yet write an epilogue or two. Feel free to offer suggestions for what you might like to see in a future take. Thank you to everyone who has discovered this story and stuck with me—even through those bleak chapters when we were all wondering what the hell was wrong with Bella. I love you all!

My betas, **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**, have been here to hold my hand from the start. I couldn't have done it without you. Pre-reader **ameliakbedelia**, I thank you and hope you enjoy the surprise! As for **dreaminginnorweigen** and **luvrofink**, I love you! Thank you for being two of my biggest cheerleaders!

Suggested Listening: "Feeling Good" by Muse

* * *

**Chapter 19 - Feeling Good**

It's a new dawn  
It's a new day  
It's a new life  
For me.  
And I'm feeling good

"Feeling Good" - Muse

**Edward**

Bella makes a choking noise and sits up in bed, wiggling out of my embrace. Her razor-sharp gaze is aimed at me, and I suddenly feel wary.

"Elizabeth's ring arrived in the mail today," she says, quoting a passage from my journal, "Esme sent it by overnight express. It feels right to have it near."

_Oh, right. I'd forgotten that bit._

I knew giving Bella my journal was a gesture laced with potential danger, but I don't regret the decision. I want her to know everything, even if we have to muddle through an awkward conversation or two as a result. Still, I'm not quite ready to plunge in head-first.

"What's that, love?" Suddenly I'm very interested in the color of the wall. Playing dumb is a futile endeavor—especially for a vampire—but that doesn't keep me from making the attempt.

"Right here—after a breathtaking reminiscence of our first night in your new bed and an oversharing account of Spencer's inner life—you casually mention Esme has sent your mother's wedding ring to you. Care to tell me what that's about?"

"It's not what you think—" I begin, but she doesn't let me finish.

"Were you going to _propose_ to me?"

I sit up, perhaps enjoying her ridiculous overreaction a bit too much.

"Oh. Well, I guess it is what you think."

"What?"

I have the urge to laugh, but wisely hold it in. I'm teasing her. She's just so cute, all shocked and wide-eyed.

"_Eventually_, love," I say cracking a smile. "I was going to propose eventually. After a very long courtship."

She frowns and eyes me suspiciously. "What do you consider a long courtship?"

"A year or two."

"_A year or two?_ Edward, I was nineteen and still in school!"

"And the love of my life."

The truth of this is so obvious to me. Why wouldn't I want to marry her as soon as possible? My words seem to pacify her a bit, and I can tell she's fighting a grin, in spite of herself.

"But we'd only known each other a few days. Why on earth did you need the ring then?"

"Bella, I knew you were the love of my life the first night I watched you sleep. I knew then I couldn't be apart from you. You've read that. More importantly, you could _feel_ that, couldn't you?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"I just wanted it close."

My jovial tone is gone. I scoop her into my lap and brush her hair across her shoulder, running my nose along her silent pulse point. She smells wonderful, like cinnamon and sunshine.

"I wanted something from my mother nearby, and the ring felt appropriate. I remember very little about her, but I know she would have been so happy for us, love. So happy to know I was with someone like you."

Bella leans into my embrace. "Edward. . ."

"I don't regret a moment of my time as a vampire because it ultimately led me to you. But there are things this life took from me, things I never imagined I'd have—until you came along."

I take her left hand in mine and kiss her knuckles with each word, landing on her ring finger at last.

"Hope. Love. Forever. Meeting you allowed me to imagine a life I didn't dream possible, and I wanted something that would remind me of that extraordinary possibility. Something to remind me of my humanity."

"Oh, Edward."

She looks like she might say more, but the words never come. She simply leans in close and smiles enigmatically. I have an insatiable appetite for her thoughts. Instead of teasing out the truth, I'm left wondering what's going through that beautiful mind of hers. As she nuzzles into me—her cheek brushing over my shoulder—she radiates contentment, and I am satisfied.

I haven't thought about the ring at all since the day Tanya turned everything upside down, but before that, it was on my mind quite often. I love the idea of Bella someday wearing my mother's ring—Bella someday pledging herself to me, to us. Perhaps it's silly and archaic in this day and age, but it's an idea that fills me with indescribable warmth. Bella, my bride. Bella, my wife.

What is love, if not the promise of forever?

When she was human, I could only hope for as much time as Bella's too-short life would allow. And I was content with that. I would take every minute and cherish it. Yet the path before us is no longer a short, bittersweet trail, but a glorious, winding labyrinth—we could wander side by side for eternity and still never come to the end. If fate doesn't play some cruel joke on us again, Bella and I have as long as we want.

Forever.

What an amazing word that is. A perfect word. Flawless as a diamond.

"Would you like to see it?"

She's confused by my question and pulls away to meet my gaze. "What?"

"The ring? Would you like to see it?"

Terrified understanding alights in her eyes, and her breath hitches. "Oh, I don't. . ."

"Don't panic," I say through a smile. "I just thought you might be curious."

She pauses for a beat, gathering herself.

"Okay. Sure."

I move her from my lap, my hands lingering on the swell of her hips before I rise. She's wearing a bra and underwear and nothing else—I can't help but enjoy the view for a moment. The two blissful days since Bella rediscovered her love for me have been engrossing, to say the least. We've been too occupied to move all my possessions to our room, so I have to go next door to retrieve the ring from the guest room.

"Wait!" she says before I've made it out the door.

"Yes?"

"I just want to make sure you know . . . I'm yours. Ring or not, I'm always yours, Edward." There's a curious reserve in her eyes, which makes it difficult to believe her words.

In spite of the knot of foreboding in my gut, I nod and turn. When I return, she's waiting expectantly at the head of the bed. She seems really nervous, and I realize how all of this must look to her.

_Jesus! Why did I ask if she wanted to see the ring?_

I feel like an unbelievable moron. But it's a little too late to turn around and hide the damn thing, so I press on. The bed dips as I join her. I hold my hand out and uncurl my fingers, revealing the gleaming stone and simple band.

_Is it too much to hope this gesture reads as nonchalant? Definitely._

I hold my breath as Bella scans my palm. She nods, pressing her lips into a tight line.

"It's beautiful."

"You can touch it—I promise it won't bite."

She breathes out in a quick burst—a laugh, I think—then meets my eyes at last.

"We're both being ridiculous, aren't we?" she says, and the vice gripping my chest loosens the slightest bit.

"I think so."

Her fingers graze my palm as she takes the band and draws it up for a closer look.

"It's amazing—the detail," she says examining the oval-cut stone. "It's like a tiny universe in there."

I watch her for a moment, lost in the perfect curve of her cheek, the bright gleam in her eyes.

"There wasn't much I could take with me."

Bella eyes me curiously.

"After the change. I wasn't in any shape to pack a bag, and Carlisle couldn't afford to leave me alone to do it for me. He did what he could. Collected my parents' belongings from the hospital—their wedding bands, a letter Elizabeth had written me, my father's pocket watch. None of it meant much at the time, though I was glad to have those small remembrances in later years."

I take in the treasured pieces of Bella's past scattered around the room—framed pictures, worn books, odd trinkets—and smile. I had no idea how much these things would mean to her, and I am eternally grateful I had the forethought to bring them with us.

"I wasn't like you. I didn't have time to think about what I'd lost, which was a blessing, I suppose. On top of everything else, mourning my parents would likely have broken me. As it was, I was too busy dealing with my new ability and the certainty that I'd gone mad."

Bella's eyes fill with sorrow, and she draws my head toward her, kissing my temple. I'm relieved when she doesn't speak. I'm not looking for her pity. Her gaze returns to the ring, a deeper reverence in her eyes.

"After a few years, when my thirst was under control and I'd found a way to manage the voices in my head, I started asking questions. Carlisle told me all he could remember, but there wasn't much. His interaction with my parents was limited to the sickbed, and conversations largely revolved around to how to ease their pain.

"My own memories of my parents are fuzzy, at best. I remember my mother's confident hands working needlepoint, stuffy society ladies eating teacakes at the suffragette meetings she hosted, watching her work in the garden she adored. I remember how my father smelled after a visit to the barber, the way he rested his hand on the small of Mother's back when escorting her anywhere.

"I know they loved each other. I know they loved me. And I am certain they would have loved you."

"Edward. . . I don't know what to say to that."

I pull her close and draw in her scent. The effect on my system is instantaneous—I feel warm and grounded.

"Don't say anything. I just thought you should know why the ring means so much to me. Why I wanted it near. It's one of a few links to my past, and when I met you, I thought perhaps it could be a link to our future."

She sighs, but stays silent. Seems I have all the words today.

"What would you have said, do you think? Under different circumstances?" The question is out of my mouth before I have a chance to register it.

Bella's eyes snap to mine—wide with surprise—and she stills. This is probably too much to ask of her, but my curiosity has overtaken my reason.

"I mean, if things had gone as planned. If Tanya hadn't—" Her expression goes dark, and I change course. "If you were finished with school, and I'd gotten down on one knee? What would you have said?"

Her face cracks, horror at my words blooming raw and unconcealed.

"Edward, I don't—I don't know." She takes a deep breath and shifts away the slightest bit. The distance breaks my heart. "I probably would have freaked out, to be honest. My parents' marriage didn't go that well, and Renee drilled it into me that I should be in my thirties and have a career under my belt before I even considered it."

It kills me to imagine that scene playing out. My eager proposal. Her resolute rejection.

"Oh, Edward, don't do that," she says, cupping my cheek. "Don't go all sad-eyes on me. If anyone could have convinced me to get married at that age, I'm sure it would have been you."

The chill running through my veins thaws a bit, and I lean into her touch. She knows me so well. It's hard to hold onto the hurt when she's giving me so much.

Bella eyes the ring again—expression bright, flushed lips curving up.

"It's lovely that you wanted that."

_No need for the past tense,_ I think wryly. But I conceal the jab of disappointment as best I can and return her smile.

"I didn't ever imagine getting married." Her eyes are fixed on the gleaming stone as though it holds the answer to a fascinating mystery. "As well as I can remember, I didn't dream about the fluffy white dress or the big party. I didn't see the point in all that."

She's lost somewhere in her head, and I wonder if she's even registering my presence anymore.

"I did dream of having someone to share my life with," she says, looking up at last. "And I have that. I have you." In an instant, I feel the warmth of her affection. I am awash in her love. "You have exceeded all my expectations."

She leans in, soft lips meeting mine, and I allow myself the relief of losing myself in her kiss. There is nothing I want more than to be here, now. I don't need anything else, as long as I have her.

I lie down on the bed and draw her over me, our legs tangling lazily together like a vine. Her hand clasps mine—my mother's ring locked between our palms—and I know whatever future I had hoped for doesn't matter. We'll create a new future. Together.

The ache of unfulfilled dreams floats out of me, and I let myself sink into Bella's love. It's here. It's real. It's the only promise I need.

Bella pulls away, resting her head on my shoulder with a sigh.

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

_Do I tell her the truth?_

I've been so careful to keep these scabbing wounds hidden from her, but it's starting to seem like a futile effort. She reads me so well—I don't have to say the words for her to know what I'm thinking.

"A bit, love." I kiss the top of her head and smooth her hair down. "But it's all right."

She eyes me with a skeptical frown.

"_Really_. I was in love with a dream—a phantom you and me with an imagined future. It want the real you, not some Bella I've made up in my head."

"Still, it was a beautiful dream, Edward."

She tightens her grasp on my hand, and our entwined fingers press closer together. Her chest expands with a heavy breath, but she doesn't release it. She wants to speak, but something is holding her back. Fear? Uncertainty? I don't know.

"What is it, love?"

A beat more, then the words fly out of her in a rush, spilling over one another so fast only a vampire could distinguish them.

"_I-was-just-thinking-maybe-I-could-wear-it._"

Her eyes dart away, but her grip on me tightens.

"You'd like to wear it?"

She nods silently against my chest.

"The ring?" I can't imagine what else she could be talking about, but I want to be certain.

Another nod.

"It's stupid. It's a bad idea. I'm sorry—"

"Wait, Bella, stop." It's a fantastic idea. I _love_ it. No way I'm letting her dismiss it so quickly. "I would really like that."

Her body relaxes against mine, and she meets my eyes at last.

"You would?"

"Of course." Her smile freezes when I continue. "I just—please don't take this the wrong way—but may I ask why?"

I know she's not agreeing to marry me. I'd love nothing more, but it's clear she's not ready. Wearing the ring must mean something else to her, and I'd like to know what that is.

"Why?" She repeats my question.

I stroke her cheek and smile reassuringly. "Bella, based on the panic attack you nearly had at the mention of an _imaginary_ proposal, I'm assuming you wouldn't consider this an engagement."

She squeaks out an embarrassed noise that I take for an affirmative.

"So, if not for marriage. . . why?"

She sighs and hides her face in the crook of my neck. Her breath washes over me as she mumbles something I can't understand.

"What's that, love?"

Her face turns against my shoulder, uncovering her mouth, but she stays nuzzled in close.

"I want to share that dream, Edward. I want to be excited by the prospect of saying 'I do', not terrified by it. I want to wear this beautiful reminder of your mother and see that adoring look in your eyes—the one you get when you talk about marrying me. I know I'm not there yet, but I want these things so much it hurts." She huffs in frustration and lifts her head to meet my gaze at last. "Is any of this making sense?"

"Yes," I say through a smile. "Complete sense. Will you just promise me one thing?"

"Anything."

"You'll let me know when you're ready? When your head matches your heart, and you're really with me?"

"My heart and my head _are_ with you, Edward." Her eyes are earnest. Pleading.

I want to believe her. So badly. But the simple truth is I don't. I know she loves me, but will she always? There's something tethering her to her former life—something that causes her hesitation in moments like this. So slight, but so enormous. A drop of red in a bucket of white paint. As long as it's there, she can't be entirely mine.

"You don't believe me."

I take the ring from her and ease it onto the fourth finger on her left hand. It's a perfect fit.

"What I believe is you are perfect for me, and I love you more than life itself. Can that be enough for now?"

"Yes," she whispers. "More than enough."

She kisses me once and pulls away to meet my gaze.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For your love. For having faith in me and trusting me with this."

She thumbs the ring, and it sparkles in the late-afternoon light. Then she puts her hand on my chest, and I brush the curtain of her hair behind her ears so I can see her face. I don't think she's ever been more beautiful.

"For trusting me with your heart."

I pull her to me tightly and roll us until I'm hovering above.

"I love you, Bella." I raise her hand to my mouth and kiss her from fingertips to elbow, paying special attention to the new adornment.

I say it again as I kiss the underside of her arm, over her shoulder, and along her sternum. I say it again as I worship every part of her—kissing stomach and thighs, knees and toes. As my mouth charts a meandering course, my hands remove the remaining scraps of our clothing. I want to feel her without barrier. I want to memorize her flesh—burn this moment into memory so that Bella's perfect frame is all I see when I close my eyes.

Bella's eyes are hooded and drowsy as I make my way up to kiss her chest and neck, her cheeks and lips. She smiles against my mouth and wraps her arms around me. Still, I'm not done. There are a few neglected areas to cover.

I've just made it across her temple and down to that delicious spot behind her ear when she sighs, "Please, Edward. Make love to me."

_Has anyone ever heard more amazing words from a woman's mouth?_

I don't have far to go, I realize, as the tip of my erection is already resting against Bella's hip. I pause there, frozen, uncertain about this next step. I want to ask her if she's sure, if this is really what she wants. But after everything we've shared today, I know if I do, she'll only get upset. Bella—my heart—is asking me to love her. How can I refuse?

I want to love her. I want to make love to her. And I can think of nothing that should stop me.

I answer with a kiss.

Our tongues meet in a long and languorous dance as I shift between her legs. I sense her heat before I feel her slick skin.

_Oh my God._

I prop myself up on my arms so I can see her beautiful face, and Bella sucks in a sharp breath as I slip against her. She pulls on my shoulders, trying to draw me close, but I hold steady above her. I want to watch her. I want to see where we connect.

My eyes are fixed on her as I graze her entrance, holding myself back from going too fast, pushing too hard. Her body is no longer the fragile thing it once was—no longer needs my protection—but I can't say the same about her heart. Her eyes are wide and expectant, her mouth a tight line. She looks nervous—as nervous as I feel. I dip my head to kiss that tension off her lips, and at last it disappears, replaced by a small smile.

Wordlessly, I ask her if it's okay to continue, and she nods, sucking in a long breath in anticipation. Ever so slowly, I push my hips forward, sinking into Bella, sinking into my love. She lets out a surprised cry as my own groan rumbles out of me.

"Oh, God."

She's warmth and fire and burning heat. I'm surrounded by her—encompassed by her glorious flesh—and I can't believe the feeling. It takes everything I have to keep still, to hold myself back from pounding relentlessly, but I know I can't lose control.

Bella claws at my shoulders, words mirroring her pleading eyes. "Please. _Please_."

That's all the invitation I need. Ever so slowly, I pull my hips back and push in again, sheathing myself deeper in her warm, wet center. She sighs and closes her eyes, leveraging herself against me with her legs. She's wrapped tightly around me, heels digging into my thighs as she pushes up to meet me.

I begin a tentative rhythm, working myself deeper with each forward stroke. From the fire rising between my legs, I know it's going to be a herculean task to last even a few minutes. Still, I press on, reveling in the joyful concentration on my love's face as she matches each stroke. Stolen glimpses of our connected bodies only fuel my desire.

She's so beautiful. We're beautiful—together, like this.

I want it to go on forever; I want to feel her tight and smooth around me. I want to love her and love her and love her until the world ends.

But reality encroaches, and I know that won't be happening.

Bella's whispered name is on my lips as a rising flame builds within me. I hope she understands what this means to me—how much I love her, how thankful I am that she chose me.

Against my struggling resolve, my hips move faster, working me deeper inside; Bella's keening cries rise like sparks into the silent evening. I want to hold on and make this last, but the sensation is overwhelming, and I'm overcome by a building pressure I can't deny.

With a strangled groan, I let go, pumping wildly, feeling my release flow hot and fast. My eyes slam shut, solar flares flashing behind closed lids. Bella moans, her inner muscles clenching tightly as she squeezes her thighs against my sides. She takes me into her, letting me ride out the wave, pulling me into her embrace as my arms give out and I lose the battle with gravity.

For a moment there's nothing but our mingled scents eddying in the air and her soft hands as they run through my hair. She whispers sweet words of love and devotion in my ear, and they swirl around my mind like autumn leaves on the wind.

I pull her left hand to my mouth and kiss her palm. I feel like I might burst—like I'm so full of aching love, I could explode.

An errant thought teases at me, but it doesn't click until Bella sighs softly and says, "That was lovely."

_Lovely?_

Doubt nibbles at the edges of my bliss. It _was_ lovely . . . but it was so much more. It was a blazing inferno, it was exploding stars, it was peering into the heart of the universe—for me, at least. But for Bella, it was . . . "lovely".

I cringe at my horrible oversight. _What an ass I've been!_

"Oh, Bella, I didn't—" I can read it in her eyes; I can't believe my selfishness. "You didn't finish, did you?"

She strokes my temples reassuringly. The resigned look in her eyes is killing me.

"No, but I wasn't really expecting it," she says through a frustratingly forgiving smile. "It was our first time. We're still figuring these things out."

_How can she say that? She_ should _expect it. She should damn well expect it!_

"I'm failing you. You deserve better than that."

"You aren't failing me, silly man. I loved it. It was wonderful and beautiful, and we shouldn't feel bad because we didn't have twelve simultaneous orgasms on our first try."

"I would have settled for one," I grumble, but she's not having it.

"Stop it. Don't ruin this moment for me."

I can deny her nothing. I say no more on the subject, but I still feel the sick gnawing of regret in my gut. I'm determined to make amends. I'll just have to do so in action, rather than words. A reluctant smile teases my mouth as I imagine how fun "action" could be in this case.

"I love you, Bella. You are extraordinary," I say, as I place a kiss on the tip of her nose.

"You're pretty extraordinary yourself," she replies, and I'm glad she seems to have forgiven me. She wiggles her hips, and I feel a twinge of excitement at the realization that we're still joined.

I stop the thought in its tracks. I've had my fun; I want to do something that's just for her. She gasps as I ease myself out of her, and I grin wickedly in response.

I find the place on her neck that makes her toes curl, and nibble while my hand works its way down her frame. My fingers graze the outer edge of her breast and tease her nipple. They run along her milky torso while I lick and bite my way back to her mouth. I distract her with a long, deep kiss as my hand finds her thigh and skims along the soft skin to her exquisite pink center.

She gasps into my mouth as I reach my goal, fingers exploring her most intimate of places. Her head falls back as she releases my lips and moans my name. It's a plea and admonishment all at once. I know she thinks I have nothing to prove, and I don't, really; I just want to make her feel good.

I watch Bella's face as my hand treats itself to the feel of her body. She's warm and slick and perfect. She's just perfect.

Suddenly my other senses are jealous of my hand—I want to see and smell her. I want to taste her. I want to consume her. There's an easy solution to my dilemma, and with a last lingering kiss, I move my way down until I'm settled between my love's legs. I pull her thighs over my shoulders and with a deep inhale, enjoy the particular aroma of my beautiful girl.

Bella is trembling in anticipation, her fingers tearing holes in the mattress to match the ones I made not long before. She rips the heavy bedding to shreds as I enjoy a long, slow lick.

_God, she tastes good!_

She's different from when she was human—the taste sharper, perhaps, less earthy—but no less enticing. I alternate between exploring her folds and focusing on her hard, swollen nub. She bucks against my mouth each time I hit the sensitive skin, but I continue to tease, wanting to draw this out a bit.

I love learning to play the instrument of Bella's body. Soon I'll have her singing for me, but right now I like playing random chords and snippets of melody.

I don't know how long I stay here, worshiping her, but it's long enough for Bella to grow impatient with my slow pace. I smile as she grabs a fistful of my hair, directing me to where she'd like me to focus my efforts.

"Please, Edward, stop teasing me."

_Yes, love,_ I think as I follow her command. In moments, her thighs are a vice around my head as she finds her release, pulsing against my mouth and screaming into the quiet evening.

She's still panting as I make my way up to her side, watching the gorgeous canvas of her face fall into blissful tranquility. We lay here silently wrapped in each other's embrace for a long time. Hours, perhaps.

But we have no need for sleep, and nothing to fill the time but each other. So fill it, we do.

* * *

**Bella**

This is the closest to dreaming I've come since my change. While the stars make their slow revolution in the sky, Edward and I exist in a hazy half-sleep—moving from silent contentment to fervent lovemaking and back again. I spend the quiet moments thinking about the frenzied ones until they're all mixed up together, and I can hardly distinguish the two.

A trance-like state. A beautiful delirium.

We're in one of the peaceful moments now. Edward has worked his way down to my belly, mapping the space while pecking strategic points along the way. He's silent until the hundred and seventieth kiss. This one lasts longer, and his tongue lingers, tasting me.

"This is my favorite one."

"Favorite what?"

"Freckle. Right where your panties skim your tummy—if you were wearing any," he says with a raised brow and crooked grin.

"Freckle? Is that what you've been doing—counting freckles?"

"Of course."

"Edward, they weren't even there to begin with," I say, lifting my head briefly to confirm what I already know. "My eyesight is better than perfect now. There's nothing to count."

"They _were_ there," he insists. "I remember the exact location of each one, and I'm kissing where they used to be."

This fills me with unbelievable warmth and unbearable sadness. I picture the light scattering of freckles across Renee's nose, the same ones I inherited from her, the ones now erased from my face. I see Charlie's warm eyes and know the red in my own will soon fade to golden amber, never returning to his rich brown.

We're silent while the sun peeks out from behind eastern mountains. Edward seems to have hit every freckle he remembers, because he's returning to points he already charted.

"Do you miss her?" I ask at last.

"Who?"

"The other Bella. The soft one with freckles and blushing cheeks. The one who hadn't bruised your heart."

"Bruises heal, love." I'm glad he's being honest with me, even if the truth hurts. "And you're still her. There are differences, of course, but you're still the same Bella."

I don't think so. Not really.

How can I be the same after everything that's changed? Not just physically. The other Bella never experienced pain the way I have; she never lost faith in her world. I know I've found my way back to Edward, but I'm not the same Bella who fell asleep in his arms that night.

"I do miss your blush," Edward says after a while. "Your beating heart. But not your fragile frame. I like this sturdy version much better."

He squeezes my hips to prove his point, while I cringe at his word choice.

"You make me sound like a body-builder! Sturdy. Like I'm all pecs and spray-on tan and no boobs."

"Oh, you definitely have boobs," he grins, cupping the aforementioned parts with relish.

As quick as that, we're flying headfirst into another frenzied moment. And this Bella—whoever she is—couldn't be happier.

* * *

Story Recommendation: This will be my last rec, and I'm going out with a bang! "High Fidelity" by IReen H - This story is truly a work of art. Edward and Bella are trapped in a painful dance together. They both have scars—figurative and literal—but the tug they feel toward each other is just too strong to ignore. The angst is high, as is the poetry. This story is addictive, and like most illicit substances, the painful withdrawals will never overshadow the beauty of the high.


	21. Ch 20 Somewhere Over the Rainbow

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own a heart bursting with love for all of you.

This is it, dearies. I won't keep you. Notes at the bottom.

Suggested Listening:  
"Let it Be" by The Beatles  
"Somewhere Over the Rainbow" by Israel Kamakawiwo Ole'

* * *

**Chapter 20 - Somewhere Over the Rainbow**

Somewhere over the rainbow  
Blue birds fly  
And the dreams that you dreamed of  
Dreams really do come true

"Somewhere Over the Rainbow" - Israel Kamakawiwo Ole'

**Edward**

"So what is there to eat in Alaska?"

Bella drops the buck to the ground and wipes her mouth. It's strange seeing her with clothes on, but she refused my invitation to hunt naked. I told her if anyone saw her, they'd be too worried about surviving to notice her nudity, but she wouldn't hear it. I can't complain. I've had her nude and in our bed (and in the shower and on the stairs) for three days. A few hours with her body hidden behind that irritating fabric won't kill me.

"It's similar to what we have here. More moose. Plus bears. I think you'll really like those."

"Do you think we'll be leaving soon?" she asks.

I know Carlisle and Bella discussed making the move once she completed Jasper's training, but I'm not sure how she feels about such a big change. She just got used to the Forks house. I'd hate for her to feel out of place again. If I'm honest, I don't want anything to disrupt the delicate balance we've established. I'm terrified of tipping her over the edge—away from me.

"Do you want to wait?"

"No, I guess not. There's really no reason to."

"But?"

"No. No buts. I want to go. I know everyone will be happy to return to their lives."

I'm not convinced.

"Bella."

She sighs.

"It's silly."

"I'm sure it isn't."

She looks across the forest as though there's something precious in their dark green depths.

"I know I can't see him, but I like being close to my dad," she says at last. "Just knowing he's out there, a few miles away, makes me feel connected somehow."

_Of course. Why didn't I think of that?_ It must be hard for her to imagine leaving him.

"We can stay here, Bella. You and me. I know I don't have Jasper's experience with newborns, but I could help you gain control around humans."

"Oh, you lovely man, no. I don't want to take you away from your family. Our family. Saying goodbye to Charlie is just another step. It will hurt, but I know I have to do it."

She takes my hand in hers, leading us back to the house with ease. Suddenly, the balance I've tried so desperately to maintain doesn't feel quite as precarious after all.

* * *

**Bella**

"Oh God, Bella."

Edward's eyes roll back; he won't last much longer. He's trying to hold still under me, but every now and then his hips rise to meet mine. A low grunt accompanies each erratic thrust, and I smile.

He wants me to come first. It's become an obsession for him, so I try to oblige, grinding against his pelvic bone as my hands grasp the headboard for leverage.

I love coming with him, but I don't feel that same imperative to make it happen every single time. My body craves the connection, certainly, but it doesn't necessarily demand the release. If we were keeping track over the past week, my orgasms would far outpace his, anyway. In fact, knowing Edward, he probably is keeping track.

He holds my hips tightly as I make figure-eights against him. With a gentle nudge, he shifts the angle of my pelvis, moving a hand to where we're joined. My panting breath comes a little faster as his thumb circles my sensitive nub.

"_Ah. Ah. Ah_."

"Let go, love."

I close my eyes to focus on the amazing feeling, electric flashes flying behind my lids. I increase the tempo and revel in the sensation of him filling me on the inside while his clever fingers play me on the outside. There's heat coiling in my belly, drawing lower and lower, a pulsing flame teasing me with its promise. My former nonchalance is burned away by desire—suddenly, I want to come.

_Fuck, do I want to come!_

Edward can't help but thrust into me now, and as his movement becomes more frantic, I feel that heat draw inward, focusing. It's building in intensity as my panting cries fly into the air.

"Yes, yes, so close," I whimper, and Edward's thumb works faster in response. The fire blazes out of control, consuming me whole, and I cry my release, wooden headboard splintering in my hands.

Edward pumps into me hard and fast, and he falls over the edge with his own strangled groan. I can feel him pulsing inside as I collapse against his chest, all melted limbs and shuddering sighs. We ignore the shards of wood dusting our bodies as our mingled breaths slowly calm.

After a long while, he murmurs, "See? Wasn't that better than 'lovely'?"

He's never going to let me live that down, and he's never going to stop trying to make up for our first time. I will have to suffer an eternity of him bringing me to orgasm every time we make love.

_What a horrible fate._

I smile to myself, knowing what a lucky girl I am. Still, I have to tease him a bit.

"You say it like it's a bad word."

"It's an adequate word. I want you to feel more than pleased. Content. _Fine_."

I rock my hips and kiss him deeply and long.

"Well then, you have achieved your goal. Because I certainly feel better than 'adequate' right now. I feel downright blissful."

"Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm," I mumble against his chest. "I feel euphoric. Rapturous. Ecstatic."

His grin is wide and wicked as he flips us over, keeping himself inside me as he does. I see where his mind is heading and smirk. The eager puppy has altered his routine somewhat, but he's still always aching to please.

An electronic ping on the other side of the room halts us. Grumbling, Edward releases me from his embrace and retrieves his phone from a shredded pair of pants littering the floor. He reads the message as I feel a sinking in the pit of my stomach.

"So?"

There's only one thing it can say. I'm not surprised, because I know what's coming, but I'm not quite ready for it, either.

"Alice. They'll be home by sunset."

And that's it. Our perfect week of solitude ends not with a whimper or a bang, but a text.

"Okay."

As much as spending the rest of our day in bed together sounds wonderful, I feel an urge to get out of the house. I'm tired of the walls. I want the open air. I want sunlight.

I stand up and rummage around my drawers for a scrap of clothing that hasn't been stained by blood or destroyed by Edward's enthusiastic pawing. There's surprisingly little left.

"What are you doing?"

Edward slides behind me, trying to distract me with wandering hands. I pick out a pair of panties as he cups my breasts.

"Looking for something to wear. Ugh. I'm going to have to do some shopping."

Thank goodness for the Internet. Even before my change, it's how I got most of my clothes; now it's an imperative, not just a preference, to stay away from the hordes at the mall.

Edward nibbles on my shoulder, mumbling between kisses.

"Why on earth would you want clothes right now?"

I manage to keep my focus—just barely—and choose an outfit I haven't worn since I was human. It makes me smile thinking about the last time I had it on. My first date with Edward. Renee had bought the brown skirt and off-white peasant blouse for me. At the time, I had told her I would never wear it, but she insisted the day would come when I would want to feel a like a girl, and then I'd be thankful it was in my closet. She was right.

"I want to go outside."

"Are you thirsty?"

"No. I just need to get out."

"Bella. Look at me." He tugs on my shoulder, gently spinning me. "I thought you were feeling better about the family."

He looks worried, and I want nothing more than to ease his fears.

"It's not that. I'm looking forward to seeing them. I just . . . I don't know. I want to keep what we have here private." I'm not sure I understand it myself. I only know I don't want my time with Edward mixed up with Emmett's teasing, Alice's knowing looks, or even Carlisle's polite silence. "If they walk in the house while we're making love, they'll own a little piece of us, and I don't want that. I want it to be ours."

There's love shining in his eyes, but under that, trepidation.

"You know that's what it's like for our kind, don't you? We'll hardly ever be alone if we live with them. I mean, you've seen the rest of the family in action. Even as discreet as Esme and Carlisle are, they know better than to expect absolute privacy."

"No, I know that. And yeah, I'm sure it's going to take some getting used to. I'm just talking about this week—what we've had here. This has been the best week of my life. I want to box it up and keep it safe, you know?"

He brushes his lips against mine, then thinks better of it and gives me a proper kiss. I have a hard time standing as he pulls away—thankfully, his arms are there to catch me.

"Of course, my love." He dips his head, working his way down my body with scorching kisses until he's on his knees and I'm gripping the dresser behind me for support. His breath is warm against my belly, and I shudder at the carnal look he's giving me. "But they won't be here for hours. Surely, we have time to make a few more memories for the box?"

Then his tongue is doing things my mind can't process, and my box is happy to take any memories he's willing to give.

* * *

We do eventually pull ourselves away from the bedroom. Edward runs behind me as we make our way up the mountain to the meadow. I suspect the fact that I've forgone panties has something to do with his choice to follow, but I don't comment.

I feel autumn's approach as I break through the trees—the bite in the air, the mulchy smell overtaking the sweet. Most of the flowers are bent and weary, their blossoms bruised and shriveled. It makes me sad to think I won't be here to see them bloom again next year. It could be decades before it's safe for us to return. With a sinking realization, I suddenly understand we'll probably have to wait until everyone we know in Forks is dead.

Edward palms my hips as I take in the scene. I feel sick.

"It's different."

He says nothing.

"I knew it would change eventually, but I thought we had more time."

I might find some comfort in the idea that everything changes, but that's not entirely true, is it? The world keeps moving around me while I stand still, frozen in time. Everyone I know will grow old and die while I remain the same—etched in stone.

A stream of sunlight breaks through the clouds, bouncing rainbow shards off my skin. It's undeniably beautiful, but it makes me feel cold. Remote.

Diamonds can't feel.

_Golden sunlight streaks across the floor, highlighting the spilled coffee grounds I'm going to have to sweep up later today. I don't mind. Edward will be here with me, so the task doesn't seem nearly as odious as it used to._

_"When's your birthday?" my vampire suitor asks from across the counter._

_He's hovering in a shady spot near the bar, like he does anytime things in the shop are slow. Other times, he can be found at one of the tables with a full cup of coffee, pretending to read while shooting surreptitious glances my way. Angela and Spencer tease him relentlessly, but he pays them no mind. He doesn't care if they think he has no life outside of me._

_"September. Why?" I don't like where this conversation is going._

_"When in September?"_

_I don't answer, so Edward calls to Angela, who's busy restocking the milk station._

_"Angela, when is Bella's birthday?"_

_"September thirteenth."_

_"Traitor," I mutter, but she just smiles in response._

_Aside from the fact that I hate getting presents, there's something about turning a year older that has me feeling nervous. I've never minded my birthday before, but twenty feels a lot older to me now than it did just a few months ago. It doesn't take a great cognitive leap to know exactly why that is. The seventeen-year-old frame of the man standing in front of me pretty much says it all._

_"Now you know. Can we drop it?"_

_"Certainly."_

_"You know I don't want anything, right?" I'm the one who told him to drop it, but I can't seem to shut up about it myself. "You shouldn't start planning some big surprise or anything."_

_"Wouldn't think of it," he says in a way that tells me he absolutely would think of it—is, in fact, thinking of it right now._

_"I'm serious. Just act like it's any other day."_

_"It's more than a month away, Bella. No need to worry yourself about this now."_

_"I'm not worried, because you're going to ignore it."_

_The humor is gone from his eyes. Edward leans across the counter and takes my hand._

_"Why are you so intent on pretending your birthday doesn't exist?"_

_"Why do you think, Edward?" There's an edge in my whisper, and I pull my hand away._

_Is he really that dense? Every day I get older feels like a tiny step away from him. Surely, he understands that. I know I have at least a couple more years before the age difference becomes obvious; a decade if we push it. Much longer than that and people will start asking if I'm his mother._

_Assuming he sticks around that long._

_"I think the day you were born deserves celebration."_

_The way he says it is so sweet, there's no way I can respond with the venom I'm feeling, so I turn to mop up a non-existent spill on the opposite counter._

_I hate how my time with Edward is so often tempered by pain. He wants me. I want him. Why can't that be enough? Why dwell on the day he no longer finds me desirable? Why waste time imagining how empty my life will be without him?_

_I wipe the moisture from the corner of my eyes and take a deep breath. I can't do this now. I can't fall apart here._

_Anyway, Edward is right. It's nothing I have to worry about right now._

_I turn and plaster a smile on my face. Edward shines the full wattage of his own lopsided grin on me, and my breath lodges in my throat._

_I want to ask him to tell me what I'm thinking, but I can't seem to get the words out._

Shards of sunlight bounce across my vision and I look down, expecting to see my skin reflecting the rays. Instead, Edward's arms have wrapped me in their embrace, and it's our shared light that's shining all around.

"I never seem to get it right, do I?"

"What's that, love?"

I turn in his arms, hoping he understands how much he means to me in this moment. How much he will always mean to me.

"When I was human, I wished for eternity with you. When I was turned, all I wanted was to go back. I've been so stupid."

"I am certain you have never been stupid a single moment of your life."

"You're very kind."

"I'm perceptive."

"I love you."

He takes a moment to process that, looking at me. Really looking.

"I know."

I smile at what might otherwise be a cocky retort. In this case, it's Edward's way of accepting my unspoken apology. I feel the weight of his remaining worry lift, see that he really believes me. He knows I'm not going anywhere.

"I'm so, so glad I have forever with you," I say as I lace my hands into his hair.

"It still won't be nearly long enough."

Our kiss is a healing balm on my heart. Oh, how I hope it's the same for him.

When we pull away at last, Edward takes my hands in his. He brushes the pad of his thumb against his mother's ring—my ring—and says, "You know how much I love you, don't you?"

"I do, Edward. Head and heart. I really do."

I am blissful-bright. I am rockets in July. I am awash in the light of a thousand suns. Edward's light. Edward's love.

We make love in what is now our meadow; it's not the first time, nor will it be the last. Still, it's a farewell of sorts, and as we watch the sun make its slow progress behind the mountains, I feel ready to take on whatever comes next. With Edward by my side.

**The End**

* * *

A/N: I apologize in advance for how long the following is... Maybe grab a coke or cup of coffee now, if you want to read it. ;)

At just over 108,000 words, _Shelter_ is the largest thing I've written and one of the most massive projects I've ever undertaken. I'm so proud to have finished it. I am notorious for starting things—sewing projects, home-improvements, screenplays, and exercise regimens—that I never complete. So even with all its flaws, bringing this to a close feels better to me than you can possibly imagine.

I started writing _Shelter_ in November of last year, hoping to claw my way out of a 10-year writing dry spell. I was inspired by all of the amazing works of fanfiction I had just discovered (many of which have been featured in my recommendations), and I wanted to see if I could create a story that made me laugh, cry, and _feel_ in the way so many of them did.

What was completely surprising was how many friends I discovered along the way. The first of those were **darcysmom** and **Marlena516**, the two lovely ladies who agreed to be my betas so early into the process. They held my hand, encouraged me, laughed at my jokes, told me when I went to fast or too far, and of course, corrected those damn commas! Perhaps the best thing they did was drag me, kicking and screaming, onto Twitter, where I have found the most amazing community of Twilight-obsessed weirdos ever!

One of those weirdos (I mean that in the best possible sense!) was **AmeliaJBedelia**, who was a huge cheerleader for _Shelter_ and rather relentless in her pursuit of inside dirt. It payed off (for me, at least) because she agreed to by my pre-reader when I hit a huge crossroads in the story. This story would not have been the same without you ladies—seriously, I can imagine the pitchforks aimed at me if I didn't adjust things the way I did—and I owe you so much thanks!

There are too many people on twitter who have read, reviewed, and squeed over each chapter to ever name them all. You are snarky, funny, awesome people, and I love you. Lately, two peeps in particular have really helped by joining me for frequent writing sessions, so to **dreaminginnorweigen** (my sister from another mister) and **IReenH**, THANK YOU! I love you ladies and am in awe of your brilliance.

Finally, the biggest thanks goes out to all of you, my readers! You pushed me to work hard late into the night and early in the morning, you gave me encouragement when I thought surely everyone would think this was a hot mess, you helped me become a better listener, and in turn, a better writer. Thank you for sticking with this story. Thank you for your feedback. Thank you for your love.

I'm not done with the Twilight fandom yet, but I don't have any plans for another multi-chapter story. I have a novel waiting eagerly for me to return to, so I think I'll give that my attention for a while. In the mean time, I am taking the SmutU class with Project Team Beta this summer, so put me on alert if you want to check out those steamy one shots once a week. And I may come back for a future take or two on _Shelter_, but I need a little breather before that happens.

I hope you liked my story. I'm very happy sending these two off into the sunset. I don't like goodbyes, so I'll just say, "See you soon!"


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